Romy: Book I of the 2250 Saga

by Nirina Stone

  “But why did you do those things?” Cassiandra says. She leans forward slightly to sit on one of the stiff white leather couches in the room.

  Naturally, Isaac filled them in with my exploits. They had to decide whether or not I was a suitable employee and, since I didn’t hurt anyone too badly, they approved. No one at auction is crime-free, anyway. I think of the guards I shot. I’m sure they healed fairly quickly, given that I avoided any major arteries.

  “I mean, you pushed those poor people down,” she continues, “they were scratched up!” Of course she’s only concerned about the Prospo I (barely) injured. The guards I shot were Citizens. They wouldn’t even register in her mind.

  Isaac coughs and looks up at me. He answers Cassiandra before I say a word. “Some people,” he coughs again, “go to Azure so they can get certified to work with families like yours. Remember, I was in Azure when John’s grandfather won me at auction.”

  I nod. It’s like a right of passage for us Citizens. My future would have been bleak without the experience at Azure. Of course, the Prospo would think it’s horrible—they have no idea what a typical Citizen’s life is like.

  “Grandpa Bill?” Amy asks. She looks over at Isaac with a smile.

  “Yes,” he answers at the same time Cassiandra speaks. “Yes, you are very lucky,” she says.

  I smile at her, hoping the look on my face translates to agreement with her words, and not consternation. After all, she’s right. I’m very lucky I’m here, and not with the Sorens.

  “Where are your parents?” Amy asks. She sits on another stiff white couch, across from her mother and brother.

  “My father is in Azure and my mother is on Mars.” I frown. I think she’s on Mars. I hope she’s still very busy, on Mars.

  “So why didn’t you inherit your Mother’s job?” Amy asks.

  “She worked as a private groomer for another Prospo family,” I reply. “I wanted to specialize in a different trade.” I don’t tell them that the thought of becoming the family’s private groomer for the rest of my life never passed through my mind.

  I knew Mother was miserable in the role, though she never complained about it a single day of her life. She was as supportive as Father with my plan to enter Azure, right before she left.

  Kevin Diamond looks up at me and I’m surprised he speaks at all. I assumed he would treat me as coldly as his father has, so far. “Are you ashamed of that kind of job?” He cocks an eyebrow at me. I expected some questions, but this is starting to annoy me. I want to get the rest of my work done today. There is plenty yet to do, without having to sit here and discuss my every decision in life.

  “Not at all,” I finally answer. How do I explain to these Prospo there are more important things to do in life than apply someone else’s makeup and make sure the colours coordinate with their current wardrobe?

  How do I explain that Mother’s brain is unlike any of theirs and that she is so much more, so much smarter than they could imagine? How do I say that she is worth much more than the debasing position the Prospo family had her in?

  I don’t, of course. I merely repeat, “I just wanted to specialize in a different trade.”

  Soon after the family move back into the Winter house, Isaac and I find ourselves busier, making sure all the machinery and computers run smoothly.

  “Our job is to ensure everything they need to use every day never fails or falters,” he instructs. I watch him work with more purpose with the family in the house. He didn’t slack when they were away, but he seems to move at double speed with them home.

  The most important piece of machinery is an older but still efficient computer that John Diamond, the father, uses as his family’s personal scheduler. It’s called an Advanced Automated Diary Assistant. It also holds information about the Diamond’s various businesses.

  “They’re in Energy,” Isaac tells me. I don’t ask for specifics. Isaac only tells you what you need to know—nothing more, nothing less. The AADA syncs all of their other devices as much as fifty times a day, and Isaac is in charge of it.

  “I trust you,” he assures me, “but John’s only ever had me manage the AADA. He won’t be comfortable with someone else taking care of it. Not for some time.”

  Handling the machinery is not challenging for Isaac’s wrist so I don’t argue with him. Besides, there is plenty of work for the two of us to handle.

  I’m surprised he calls the Diamonds by their first names, without the requisite ‘Mister’ or ‘Doctor,’ but then watching them around him is quite an experience in itself.

  Their relationship is not at all what one would expect of one between Prospo and their employees, either. They treat Isaac like a grandfather they love, that they care about. That they respect. It’s not something I’d ever seen or heard a Prospo would do, or how I’d expect a Citizen to be treated. Their interactions leave me befuddled, but then he’s been with them a while. Surely this is more an anomaly than not.

  Roberta, on the other hand, lost her voice and her energy the moment they walked through the door. I rarely ever hear her talk anymore.

  Amy Diamond, the daughter, asks me, “What do you think of the mutes?”

  “The mutes?” I reply, my mind on Jerome.

  “Yes, the two mutes that work here, with you and Isaac. Aren’t they funny?” she says. Then I realize she means Jerome and Roberta.

  Right. Amy has never heard either one of them speak. So to her, they are both mute.

  We are standing in front of a portrait of her mother, one that caught me by surprise the first time I saw it, and still makes me turn my eyes away.

  I’m on my way to the robotics room, but Amy needs me to help her make one of her personal tablets work faster. As I work on it, I realize she’s still waiting for an answer from me. “Yes, they are funny,” I reply, keeping my voice steady.

  I don’t want to correct Amy and say that Roberta is not, in fact, a mute. Maybe Roberta would rather be seen that way—it’s not my place to say, anyway. You don’t go around correcting the Prospo, that’s disrespectful.

  Looking up, I quickly drop my chin when I catch the portrait of her mother in the corner of my eye.

  “Does it make you uncomfortable?” Amy asks, catching my obvious attempt to stop looking at the portrait.

  “Not at all,” I respond, rebooting her tablet to see if the fix will make it fast enough.

  The portrait sits across the entire South wall of the hallway. Its size is not what makes me look away though. The front of the mother’s body is turned towards the back of the portrait, with her face turned to look at the artist as if in greeting.

  She holds a sparkling blue dress loosely behind her in her hands, but is otherwise disrobed from her neck down to her lower thighs. The only part covered is her neck, with a matching choker. Her hair is attached on the top of her head like a bun, giving the impression she is going to a formal occasion, a stark contrast to the rest of her attire, or lack thereof.

  It’s unnerving. I can’t imagine Mother in a similar state of undress.

  “It’s ‘Art’ you know,” Amy says, as she looks at it. Then her eyes land on mine as if to mock my discomfort. “I guess you and your kind would not understand art though, would you?”

  “No I don’t,” I confirm, having never heard the word in conversation. I may have read of it somewhere, but it never occurred to me to do more research on it. “What is art?”

  “Art means something beautiful,” she replies, then she accepts the fixed tablet from my hands and walks away.

  I mouth the word art, thinking of something beautiful and my mind goes to my parents. I remember Mother and Father digging a trench in a far corner of our small property in Citizen City. It was purposed to run new water pipes through the land. Mother was dressed in her usual farming clothes—Father’s old denim overalls that were much too big for her, but allowed her to move around in comfort.

  It was a hot dusty afternoon and the rising dirt landed on her skin and hair
every which way, but she did not bother shrugging or wiping it off.

  Her face and hands were caked in mud, I remember, most of it already drying into a hard crusty layer of gray. She had a fierce look in her eyes while she worked side by side with Father.

  Once the pipes were all laid properly, the earth stacked in mounds around them, Father put one dirty hand on Mother’s lower back and she leaned in to give him a long kiss on his muddy lips. They both laughed and wiped their faces with their dirty hands. They held each other in a tight hug, Mother’s head lying on Father’s broad chest.

  I doubt Amy or any of the Prospo would label that ‘Art,’ but I remember thinking they were so strong and beautiful. I glance up at the naked portrait of the Prospo mother and suddenly miss my parents. Before I am caught in the hallway with tears in my eyes, I turn around swiftly and walk away.

  Roberta Thirty Five and I are in the Prospo Father’s study. At least, it’s called the study, but instead of books lining the shelves, he has various miniature cars and bikes and boats and rockets of all shapes and sizes.

  I was speechless the first time I laid my eyes on them, knowing that just one of the tiny cars would cost more than my parents’ entire house and small tract of land. He must own hundreds—no, thousands—lining all four walls of the study. Thousands of miniature models to admire from afar. I have only seen him take one down to look at it and then put it back in its place. It all seems pointless, but he always leaves the room with a proud glint in his eyes and his chin held high—higher than normal.

  Roberta asks me to fix the smaller machine in the study. The Diamond’s AADA hangs behind us, yet another massive big screen on the wall.

  But the machine I work on is the smaller one propped on John Diamond’s desk.

  “It’s not syncing correctly,” she says. She shows me the line she input to her tablet, which has not shown up on the calendar in here.

  “I’ll check the code,” I say as I log in and work through the lines one by one. As much as I enjoy the hands-on side of things Isaac loves to share with me, I find I’m more in my element when I’m lost in lines of code.

  There is nothing confusing in there—letters, numbers, and figures that specify to the various machines and computers what they need to do. I understand my full purpose when I’m in there because there is no room for confusion or subtleties. I know exactly what to expect.

  There is also something more empowering about being able to control all the computers in the house with the lines from one machine, rather than tinkering around with wires and circuits and screws.

  As I work, I hear the door open. Roberta sits up straight, keeping her eyes forward. She bites her lips and I know she won’t speak again until we are alone.

  The Prospo parents walk into the room as the Father says, “—wish that he would apply himself more.” John Diamond is a tall man. The type of man that turns all heads when he walks into a room. He’s always dressed in a slate silk suit that matches his salt and pepper helmet of hair. It really does look like a helmet. The kind Azure inmates wore when they were tasked with fixing the outer fences. He turns his head this way and that, and not a strand ever dares to fall out of place. I realize his eyes are a steely gray too. It’s like he was forged out of metal.

  “Yes, but why?” Cassiandra asks. “He will inherit the companies whether or not he applies himself.”

  They both look up to see Roberta and me in the room, but they do not acknowledge us or stop talking, either. They don’t falter for a second. They keep up with their conversation, like we are part of the furniture.

  “Maybe,” John says as he looks around the shelves at his collection of miniatures. “Maybe it’s time to sign him up for Boarding School.”

  “Maybe,” Cassiandra echoes in agreement. She distractedly scratches on one nail. Every week I notice her nails are a different colour, sometimes more than one at a time. This week, they are shimmery bright pink, a colour I’ve never seen on anything but her hands and hair.

  “Amy might benefit from that too,” John says. “She’s been disrespectful of her teachers, lately. Maybe she’s bored with their subjects.”

  “Boarding School has done wonders with both our families,” Cassiandra replies. She’s busy working on another shimmery nail. Then she looks up at me while I pretend to focus on something on the screen. I think I have the issue resolved, so I reboot the entire system and wait to test it, to make sure everything works as it should.

  “What about another one?” Cassiandra asks John. Roberta stiffens beside me.

  “Another?” He looks up at her with a frown on his otherwise smooth face. “Why would you want another?”

  “Well, we are due to be nominated,” she says, distracted by yet another nail, “and if we send both Kevin and Amy away, I will be so lonely in our homes.”

  Once a year, Apex families are allowed to have a baby if they are elected by their peers to do so. It’s not something I’d know much about since it’s never my intention to have a baby. I just know enough about them to know, that’s not for me. I guess the family will be nominated to have a child, soon.

  Most people of Apex are infertile, but due to Ivy Heff, some are able to still have children. The clinical procedure is fast, pain-free. It is an expensive endeavour though, which makes most Citizens have only one child or none at all.

  Even in Prospo families, two to four kids are the maximum, with most of their children away at Boarding Schools. Anything more than that is unheard of.

  Unless, of course you’re a Soren. I’ve heard of some Sorens having five to nine children in just one family. It’s ludicrous, but their goal is to outnumber the rest of us. So far, they are succeeding, though who knows how they’re able to afford all that.

  “You’re Romy Fifty Two, right?” Cassiandra’s eyebrows are high on her forehead as she addresses me.

  “Yes, I am, ma’am,” I answer carefully.

  “That means you can elect to be a surrogate within the next year! Roberta’s too old and too tired now. You’re just right!” she says, excitedly.

  My chest tightens as I understand the meaning of her words. She means to have me as a Diamond surrogate. I picture myself strapped to a machine in a small room for months on end, prodded, poked, and injected without my consent. I’d be unable to move, to stand, to stretch, until her Prospo spawn is done incubating in me.

  I’d be a vessel, nothing more, for however long it takes to make me pregnant, and then for as long as it takes to produce a viable baby. I’ve heard of Citizens being strapped in for two years or more, for as long as it took. At least the surrogate is kept comatose during the whole time. At least there’s that. Still, I can’t imagine going to sleep, then waking up months, maybe years later.

  Preserved sperm and eggs would be collected from the Biological parents—in this case, the Diamonds’ fertile ancestors—then they’d be treated and washed and the most promising would be put together and injected into the surrogate. Citizen surrogates are discarded if it doesn’t take in that time, replaced by others until perfect Prospo babies are born. That’s just the process for one baby. The Diamonds could decide they want several more, and that would be my life for the next—I don’t know how long.

  Roberta’s selective mutism finally makes sense.

  My heart beats rapidly, and I’ve completely forgotten what I was about to do next on the machine in front of me.

  The Citizens haven’t used family names like the Prospo have in over two centuries. Instead, we are numbered. At first, the numbers were meant to indicate when we were born, but over generations, our numbers are there for one sole purpose—to flag when females are eligible to offer our uteri to carry babies for the Prospo through Ivy Heff.

  We can elect to do it, it is a choice. But if a Prospo has their eyes on one of us to carry their progeny, it is highly frowned upon if we ever choose to say no.

  When a Citizen is ‘highly frowned upon,’ that Citizen tends to disappear, not to be heard from again.
So it’s in our best interest to be amiable when the Prospo want us. After all, the Citizen carrying a Prospo baby is paid exceptionally well and is taken care of, ensuring the baby due is also healthy and clever. Any baby less than perfect is discarded, the surrogate considered defective. She always ends up disappearing, too. It is a ‘perfect’ science.

  “That would be highly convenient,” John says, his eyes also on me, “and you appear healthy.”

  “Yes,” I reply. “I mean no, I mean—” The tightening in my chest is getting painful.

  The look on Cassiandra’s face has not changed, but John eyes me with half a frown, like he didn’t expect me to speak at all. I bite my tongue. I don’t know what to say to them, but I’m already formulating a plan to get in touch with the Vorkian. Unnaturally white smiles flash in my mind, like sun rays I’ve seen only in picture books.

  Isaac comes into the room at that moment. “I think Romy is more suited for robotics, John.”

  He walks straight towards me and Roberta, his eyes trained on my face. “Her heart condition makes her unsuitable for surrogacy,” he finishes, standing beside me. I have never heard that, but he must be right. Otherwise, he just told the Prospo a lie on my behalf.

  “Oh,” Cassiandra replies as her face drops.

  John looks away from us, his eyes back on his prized little cars. “Oh well,” he says, his back to us, “we will find another.” He walks towards the door and heads out, his wife on his heel.

  I take a deep breath. My chest is no longer tight or in pain. I should be insulted that he talked about me like he’s in the market for another toy car, but I’m just relieved he’s no longer talking about me.

  Isaac is looking at my work on the computer. “Well done. It’s syncing perfectly now. Come to the robotics room when you’re done here,” he says, heading out the door.

  I stand and stare after him. Did Isaac lie for me? Or is he right about my heart, and I didn’t know that since I never considered getting myself pregnant, ever.