Evolution

by Teri Terry

  He shakes his head. “I want to know everything. But if there is one subject I’m as at sea with now as I was when I was sixteen, it’s the workings of the female teenage mind—Callie’s in particular.”

  “I’ve got some insights into that in a general way, I guess. But I don’t understand how you could keep her from her mother and brother.”

  “For her sake. To try to make her well.”

  He believes what he is saying, completely. He believes that he’s done the right thing.

  Has he?

  How can I know? I’ve never met Kai’s mother; I have no idea what she was like, what their home life was like, and I’m uneasy. To be fair, Kai wasn’t the most level-headed person; his emotions and reactions were pretty messed up sometimes. And he grew up in the same family.

  “Look at it this way,” Xander says. “If a child was being mistreated by one parent and the courts wouldn’t do anything, and the other parent took the child away, would that be the right thing to do?”

  “Are you saying she was being mistreated?”

  “She wasn’t being treated. What if a parent wouldn’t treat a readily treatable illness that could kill a child—would you accept taking the child away to provide the treatment?”

  “Probably. I think so.” Though now I’m remembering Mum. She didn’t believe in conventional medicine; when I got the flu that later killed her, she didn’t call 999 and let the authorities take me away. She took me away herself, and we hid in the night. Would I still be alive if she hadn’t?

  “In Callie’s case, there was a treatment she desperately needed. I took her away to give it to her.”

  * * *

  Xander walks me to my house, then goes back to check on Callie. He says to try to sleep, that he’ll be back to talk about it some more tomorrow.

  The door closes behind him, and I lean against it. What a night. I found Callie—or rather, Chamberlain did—but what I found wasn’t what I was expecting at all. And what do I do now?

  The plan was always: find Callie, run away from Xander with her, take her to her mother and Kai. But is that even possible? Does she really need to be with Cepta? How could she go home to her old life when the mere sound of her name makes her scream like she’s being tortured?

  And thinking that makes me hear it again in my memory, the sound she made. It was almost inhuman, like a wounded animal—the purest expression of agony. I’d reached out to Xander’s mind in a panic to come and help when I couldn’t. He must have called Cepta.

  And I’m the one who made her feel like that.

  I’m so sorry, Callie.

  CHAPTER 3

  LARA

  MY HEAD IS THICK, HEAVY. When I finally open my eyes, I wish I hadn’t—they are swollen and scratchy.

  Like I’ve been crying.

  Why?

  I get up, go to the bathroom, splash water on my face. There’s a red mark on my cheek, and I raise one hand, tentatively, to touch it. It’s sore, like I’ve banged my head into the door.

  Or been hit.

  I frown, but my memory of the day before won’t come, and then calm washes through me.

  “Lara? You’re awake. Good. I’ve brought you some breakfast.”

  Cepta stands in the doorway, and something makes me want to flinch, to step back, and her eyes widen and her smile falls away.

  But then a wave of peace fills me inside, and when she comes close and holds out her hand, I reach forward with mine. She clasps it in her warm one and smiles.

  “But first, before breakfast, come with me.”

  She draws me into the lounge, pulls me to the ground to sit next to her, cross-legged. We breathe. In, out, in, out; still, calm. I feel the floor beneath me, the air as it flows in and out of my lungs, my heart as it beats.

  There is a flush of heat inside me, and then the ache in my head and my cheek and my eyes goes away.

  There now. Does that feel better? she asks.

  Yes. Thank you. But why—

  No questions. Come. We open our eyes, and she helps me to my feet.

  There’s a plate of fruit, rolls, and cheese, and a flash of another plate much like this one flits through my mind—one I held up to the window? And gave to a boy who opened the door?

  “What an imagination you have,” she says, and I see that it was a daydream—a wish for a friend in the window. But I don’t have any friends, do I?

  Cepta has me follow her to the fields below Community to help there in the gardens—pulling weeds, thinning plants, cutting lettuce for dinner. All tasks I’ve done many times before, but this time, something is different.

  Cepta stays close by. Watching.

  By lunchtime she’s bored and has retreated to a shaded bench with a book. She could help; that’d give her something to do.

  My back is aching from stooping over, and I adjust, kneel on the ground, when something soft brushes the back of my arm. Startled, I turn.

  It’s a cat. A beautiful gray cat—and he’s huge. I reach out a tentative hand; he sniffs it, then rubs his head against it. I stroke his fur, and there’s a deep rumbling purr inside him. He flops by my feet.

  I always wanted a cat. I couldn’t, because…because somebody was allergic to them. I frown. Who? Another thought flits through my head—an orange tabby, one that was mine. But no, that’s not right. I never had one. Did I?

  This cat reaches out a paw to bat my hand until I stroke him some more, and his purr deepens.

  Maybe, at last, I’ve got both a cat—and a friend.

  When Cepta’s had enough boredom and calls me to go, like he knows it’s best, the cat follows behind, at a distance. When she leaves me in the house, I concentrate hard on the door as she shuts it.

  I still can’t see the door, its outline or handle or anything at all about it. But I watched just exactly where it was, and now I reach out with my hands, eyes closed, and find the door handle. I turn it, open it a little, and look out.

  Is he here?

  He peeks through some trees, then runs over to the door. He winds around my legs and comes in.

  I don’t leave the door wide open, just ajar. So I can still see it and this lovely cat can leave if he wants to. I know what it feels like to be kept and confined; I wouldn’t do that to him.

  But I hope he stays.

  CHAPTER 4

  SHAY

  IT’S EARLY THE NEXT EVENING before Xander appears, and I’m sick with impatience. He barely opens the door before the words I’ve been waiting to say spill out.

  “She’s my sister. I want to see her.”

  “I understand that, really I do. But I’m concerned that there will be a repeat of last night.”

  “There won’t be. I won’t use her name or say anything that will remind her who she is. I promise.” And I mean it as I say it—for now. But the more I think about it, the more I wonder how it can be the right way to treat anybody—denying that who they really are ever existed?

  “Cepta still thinks we should give it some time, until the memory of the incident has faded. Otherwise seeing you may trigger it again.”

  “But—”

  “I know you are impatient to see her. But we must consider what is best for Callie.”

  And I remember Beatriz locked in the quiet room for Cepta’s experiment, and I find it hard to trust Cepta—to believe that she’d put Callie before her own interests.

  And what is she interested in more than anything else? Xander.

  “Yes, I understand Callie must come first, and I agree. But—”

  “Patience.” He grins. “I have none, so why should you? But that is as it will be for now. In the meantime—there are things to do, to study. To think about. Come.”

  I follow him to the library, and he leaves me at the door. Elena and Beatriz are inside already, and he asks me privately not to tell them abo
ut Callie for now. Then he goes.

  “Where’ve you been? What’s wrong, Shay?” Beatriz asks me instantly.

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Nothing I’m going to tell you about, then. Come on: distract me. Tell me what you’re doing.”

  Beatriz smiles. “We’re going to leave soon to go a few miles away and see if we can still reach joining tonight. And if that works, then go a bit farther, then a bit farther.” She’s excited.

  “Yes. Fascinating, isn’t it?” Elena says—she is too. “I wonder what it will be like if it works. Will everything in between you and us link together as well?”

  Nobody knows, and despite everything else, I’m curious and excited to try it too.

  They leave soon after, along with some others from Community who know the way to the farm they will ultimately travel to, and who will walk with them. I’m sad to see them go—especially Beatriz. But I try to hide it from her.

  I wander through the library shelves, wanting something—anything—to distract me. Something random…molecular genetics? And now I’m remembering how I fiddled genes that code for the curly hair protein in my hair to make it straight.

  And there I was saying to Xander that I wasn’t sure if we should change ourselves, even assuming that we could—and yet I’ve already done it. Is this change to my hair a permanent one, or as it grows will it revert? If it is permanent, does that mean that if I had any children, they’d inherit the straight hair gene from me, not curly? If that is so—well, I’ve already evolved to suit myself.

  Intrigued, I hunt through one tome, another. I’ve always found genetics fascinating, and it’s so much more complicated than they taught us in biology at school. Most things aren’t simply coded for by one gene. It’s not just one gene that makes somebody tall, for example; there are a number of genes that interact, and they’re all influenced by what happens to the person in their environment as they grow, like what sort of nutrition they have. And most—if not all—complex traits are like this.

  And despite not wanting to think seriously about anything right now, I get drawn back to my questions. Why are some people immune? Everyone else who is exposed gets sick, and most die, but why do a very few of them survive the illness? Are the answers to both questions in their genes?

  Maybe there is something programmed in their genes that makes survivors survive. Maybe if we looked at our DNA and compared it to everyone else, we could find what it is.

  I’m so engrossed that I ignore sounds of movement around me, people coming and going, until finally there is a throat-clearing sound. I look up; it’s Persey, my guide from the other day.

  She smiles. “I didn’t want to interrupt. You looked so intent.”

  “That’s okay. What is it?”

  “It’s dinnertime.”

  That’s when I notice everyone else has left.

  We walk there together. “Are we late?” I ask.

  “Almost. But we aren’t likely to be last.”

  “That’ll be Cepta.”

  Her eyes widen. “Yes,” she whispers, as if it is scandalous to notice.

  Thinking of Cepta makes me nervous: I haven’t seen her since last night when Xander and I left her with Callie. Has she stayed with her all day? She wasn’t happy with me then. But edging out the nerves is excitement: wanting to join again tonight and see what happens.

  When we get to the door, it is easy to see that there are fewer of us here tonight, by a quarter or so: did that many leave with Beatriz and Elena? And there are a few extra empty chairs at the head table too. When we walk in, Xander motions for Persey to come with me and join us there. She’s thrilled; at Xander’s urging, she sits next to him, and I sit next to Persey.

  Cepta isn’t here yet; she’s late again.

  She appears at the door last of all and walks in that unhurried way she has, even though everyone is waiting for her.

  She pauses at our table, at the new seating arrangement.

  “Sit here, next to me,” Xander says; there is an empty seat on his other side. And her hint of annoyance turns to a smile of pleasure.

  “Where are those who are not here tonight?” she says.

  “Elena and Beatriz have walked several miles toward the farm,” Xander answers. “To experiment with maximum joining distance.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “And the others?”

  There is the sense of a swift, silent conversation between them now—and an icy glance from Cepta to me. Was this decision made without her input? I try to stifle my smug grin, too late; I need her on my side—to help Callie—and I promise to make myself suck up to her later.

  Xander is amused, and I have a flash of insight: did he deliberately exclude Cepta not only from the decision but also from the knowledge of it? It’s like he enjoys keeping her off balance, to see how she’ll react.

  But then he takes one of her hands in his, and the ice melts. She smiles and rings the little bell. Dinner begins.

  Later, Xander, Cepta, and I, as the survivors, join together first, as always; but this time, instead of linking with those in the room next, we call out beyond for Beatriz and Elena. There is nothing at first, and our thoughts are tinged with disappointment. Isn’t it going to work?

  But then a familiar touch finds me: it’s Beatriz. She is very faint to begin with, but then stronger as Elena joins her; as we consolidate the link here with Xander and Cepta, it is strengthened further.

  Next, we gather the others. Breathing in, out; in, out; in time, hearts begin to beat in synchrony. All the members of Community—both those here and those with Elena and Beatriz—join together.

  And tonight when we stretch out to the trees, insects, animals, birds, we go farther and farther. There is the rush of a river between us and Beatriz’s location—a flash sense of amoebas, water insects, and fish. Animals of the forest that were beyond our reach before join us, stopping still in their tracks, wondering who and what we are.

  And it is so far beyond anything experienced by any of us before, it is as if our emotions and joy are swelling with the earth and its riches.

  It’s so amazing I almost forget my barriers—and I think I would have, completely, but for a small intrusion, a foreign touch. It’s Cepta. She wants in; she wants to know me—all of me. But she’s shocked I caught her.

  No, Cepta; it’s not as easy as that.

  She sends a private message to me. I am Speaker. It is my duty to know everyone in this Community, completely, she says, but she’s defensive as she says it. I’m not like everyone else here, she knows.

  Perhaps we should check that with Xander?

  She withdraws.

  I sigh to myself. I’m so not doing well at winning her over.

  It feels lonely back in the house I was sharing with Beatriz and Elena. I wander from room to room, and then I pause in Beatriz’s doorway. Eventually I go in and straighten her pillow.

  Getting her away from here felt like the right thing to do, but I wasn’t prepared for how much I’d miss her and Elena. Now I’m the only one here who isn’t completely integrated into this place.

  Even with Elena and Beatriz, I had to watch what I said—I couldn’t risk letting them know my plans. It’s been so long since I’ve talked with anyone with whom I could completely let my guard down, say what I think—feel what I feel without having to hide it—and I yearn:

  For my mum, always; part of me still can’t accept that she’s gone.

  For Kai.

  But maybe even more, just now, for Iona—my best friend. We could talk complete nonsense or what was most important to us at the same time. I keep wondering what she would make of this place. Is she even still alive? I don’t dare try to find out, in case communications are being tracked and she somehow gets drawn into this.

  Even Chamberlain appears to have deserted me.


  Now that I think about it, I didn’t sense him when we were joining earlier like I have the other times. I’m worried: I hope they didn’t run out of rabbit in the woods and think a big cat would make a good barbecue.

  I close my eyes and reach out: Chamberlain?

  I find him and feel a rush of relief. He’s asleep, and now he’s a bit annoyed I’ve woken him. He opens his eyes, lifts his head. He’s on the side of a bed—perhaps he’s found someone who doesn’t toss and turn all night and disturb him, like I do.

  A hand strokes him, and he turns his head to have his chin rubbed.

  Just before he closes his eyes again, I get a glimpse: dark hair. Blue eyes.

  It’s Callie.

  CHAPTER 5

  LARA

  I’M HALF-ASLEEP, one arm around my cat.

  My cat: something inside chimes to think that.

  But suddenly he lifts his head. He sits up, stretches, and jumps to the floor.

  He walks out my bedroom door.

  “Please don’t leave,” I say, and follow him. But he’s just gone to the front room and is sitting on the floor by the partly open door.

  I wonder if he’s hungry?

  There’s some cheese left on a plate from earlier, and I break it into pieces and hold a bit out on my finger for him to consider. He sniffs and takes it delicately with his rough, wet tongue.

  Some more? I hold out another bit, and another.

  “I must give you a name. What would you like to be called?” I ask him, but then he walks to the door, puts a paw in the gap to open it a little more, and my heart sinks. Is he leaving?

  I get up and go to the door to say goodbye if he is, but through the door, I see something else, something unexpected.

  Standing there is a girl, older than me. She looks familiar, but I don’t know why, and there’s an echo of unease. She’s in the dress of Community—gold at her throat—yet I don’t recognize her. They are forbidden to talk to me, but I know them all by sight. Who is she, and why is she here?