One pit was different from the others, the mass of asphalt pooling at only one end of the basin, while the rest lay exposed, dirt and chunks of solidified tar encapsulating forty-thousand-year-old bones. I wanted a piece.
The integrity of this pit was compromised. One of the bolts anchoring the cover to a cement block was broken, and when I tried to curl the mesh aside, it bit into my palms but rolled away, creating an opening big enough for me to slide through.
“Stay here,” I announced to the bot. “I’m going to be right there—just twenty-five to thirty feet below you.” But would it comply or report me to Little? At that point, I didn’t care.
The pit was wider at the top than at the bottom, giving me a slope that was easy to hike as I climbed downward, edging the tips of my shoes into crevices and gripping patches of hardened tar with my fingertips. The smells made my nose itch, half tempting me to loosen my grip and give it a scratch.
“Damn it!” At the bottom, the earth gave way under my right foot, and I fell backward, landing on my rear but bracing myself with my palms. Nothing hurt, but I felt like a fool, and awkwardly stood to brush off my pants. “I’m fine,” I yelled up at the bot.
The thick blob of tar bubbled, and stubby mounds jetting up from the blackness oozed tar from their centers. Several bowling ball-sized clumps of hardened tar lay at the pool’s edge. With curious fingers, I studied the exterior of the closest one. A scatter of fossils was visible—bits of bone fragments and petrified plant material—things I could chisel loose back at GenH1.
But carrying it back up the pit would be difficult, so I spent the next few minutes examining each piece, weighing them in my hand.
It was hot—not hot enough to give me a headache, but while I sprinted from one specimen to the next, examining each one, a dull pain washed across my forehead, and when I stood, the pit spun. Whoa! Overcome by my light-headedness, I stumbled but steadied myself before I fell.
What in the world was happening to me? And then I remembered something from my research.
Methane gas, odorless and colorless, a miner’s worst enemy and now mine, exploded from the oily goo, and I, too intent on finding a fossil, forgot about the dangers.
Semi-trapped by the pit’s steep walls, the methane collected, creating a pocket of deadly gas in the area in which I stood. The rock of tar I held slipped from my fingers, and I staggered toward the pit’s wall, but tumbled backward instead as I lost my balance.
“No!”
The warm, thick pitch engulfed my body as I sank first to my knees and then up to my waist. A hard kick with my legs was futile, since they hardly moved, and I lunged forward, reaching toward a bulge of hardened asphalt, aiming my hand at its volcano-like peak.
“Be calm. Be calm. Don’t struggle. It will only make it worse,” I told myself as my fingers slipped away and my body dropped another inch into the goo. The pain in my head and the pounding of my heart synced, pulsing as I tried to catch my breath against the pressure of dense tar enveloping my chest. As I took short, methane-laden breaths, my eyes fluttered and my light-headedness increased.
“Cassie,” a voice shouted from above.
“Michael?”
He stood at the edge of the pit, leaning forward with his hands on his thighs and breathing heavily.
“I’m coming down there. Try not to move.”
I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, Michael was at the edge of the pool. “Grab my hand,” he cried, stretching his toward mine.
“I-I can’t. You’re too far,” I yelled, holding my arm out for him. He inched forward, letting one foot sink into the goop. “No, don’t come in here. You’ll get stuck, too.”
Ignoring my words, he leaned forward and his leg sunk to his thigh. “Almost there,” he called between breaths.
“Don’t do it. It’s no use. You have to get out of here. The methane gas will…”
His other foot slipped forward until the toe of his shoe hit the tar. “Gotcha,” he said as his hand met mine. “Just another inch.”
My fingers desperately clawed for his palm, and I gasped for air.
“That’s it. Now hold on,” he coached as our grip locked.
He turned sideways and took a step. My body, trapped in the ooze, barely moved, but with his next yank and step, I rose up to my waist. When his tar-laden leg met the shore, he gave a powerful pull, gritting his teeth. My foot came down on something hard, and as I straightened my leg, I rose far enough for Michael to catch me at the waist and draw me to safety.
“Come on, we have to hurry.” He was breathing heavily, and two veins stood prominently against his forehead. My legs went limp, and he draped my arm around his shoulders. The back of his neck was sweaty and hot, his face bright red.
When he brought me to my feet, my swirling head dropped to his shoulder, and the sick smell of tar was replaced by the sweet spice of his cologne.
“I can’t carry you. You have to climb back up on your own, but I’ll be right behind you,” he said. “I won’t let you fall.”
Excluding my arms, everything below my shoulders was covered with tar. When we reached the bank, he set his hands at my back, pushed through the goo, and gave me a light nudge in front of him.
“One hand, one foot, one hand, one foot,” he urged gently in my ear. At one point when my strength gave, he grabbed me by the back of my thighs, and with arms trembling, pushed me upward.
When we reached the top, I stuck my hands through the web of the wire cover to regain my balance, and with a final shove from below, wiggled myself through the pit’s cover, my lower body so heavy with tar, I thought I’d break at the waist.
Michael came next through the bent wire, snagging the front of his tar-stained uniform and giving his chin a nasty scratch.
“Deep breaths, in and out,” he chanted. “Yup, just like that.” He wiped his hands on his pants, but the sticky tar wouldn’t budge.
“How did you know I was here?” I asked, trying to catch my breath.
“Your band went through an upgrade last week. Any change in elevation alerts the team in case you fall.” My band was smudged, but Michael’s was barely visible under the asphalt.
“Thank you,” I said slowly.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m feeling better. Do you think…?” I looked down at my tar-soaked body.
“I’m sure she’s fine. The tar won’t affect her, and you weren’t exposed to the methane long enough for it to be an issue either.” He smiled.
“I was so stupid. I should never have—”
From over Michael’s shoulder, I saw Dr. Little coming through the gate on a hoverscooter, followed by two SECs and a MED.
“What’s going on here?” he shouted when his scooter came to a stop and settled to the ground.
“Just a little tar. It’s nothing,” I said, regaining some composure. “I was exploring and fell in the pit, but Michael—”
“This area is off limits, hence the fence.” He shook his head and the MED came up beside me to take my vitals. “We can’t trust you. We never could and we never will, and for that reason, and for your own safety, you’ll no longer be allowed to leave—”
“But—”
“All systems normal,” reported the bot.
“No buts. Those pits are dangerous. You could have gotten yourself killed. If Dr. Bennett didn’t get here when he did then—”
“Simon,” interrupted Michael, putting up his hand. “You’ve got this all wrong. You see, I’m the one who brought her here.” From the corner of my eye, I saw Michael square his shoulders. “I wanted her to see something that survived her century. She was with me the whole time. She was never in any danger whatsoever.”
“You? You’re responsible for this?” The wrinkles in his neck shook as he jabbed an angry finger.
“Yes, and I don’t see why that’s a problem.” He lifted his chin. “You gave her permission to explore the compound, and this is part of it.”
“You, t
ake her back to her apartment,” sneered Dr. Little, pointing to the nearest SEC. “And you, Dr. Bennett,” he continued with a glare that could freeze tar, “you come with me to my office so we can have a little chat about your role here.”
From over his shoulder, Michael gave me a thumbs-up and a smile as he walked away.
…
My work in the botanical garden continued, but only because of Michael.
By the end of my second trimester, I uncovered another adobe wall and was close to completing the clay jar, which over the last three months had become my latest obsession.
Unfortunately, Dr. Little found out about my use of a real pickax and shovel when he made a visit to the botanical garden after hours to see what I’d been up to. My tools were confiscated, and Dr. Leo, my gyno, gave me a lecture about not doing anything too strenuous, something that could jeopardize my pregnancy. I was still allowed to visit my sanctuary while I could hide my pregnancy with oversized tunics, but I wasn’t allowed to dig.
My daily retreat now consisted of throwing a towel on the ground, lying down, and staring at the blue sky between the lath. But one day, I dared to pick up one of my old tools, a dusty spoon, and chip away at the dirt delicately, hoping to find another piece of clay pot, knowing this small exertion wouldn’t hurt me or my baby.
And that’s when I noticed my “dig” wasn’t the way I last left it. A small section of earth was disturbed, a small hole dug and crudely refilled. A bot didn’t do it. On my orders, GROW never touched my dig. If I was in 2022, I’d blame it on a rabbit or a squirrel, but the bots in 3025 made this structure varmint free.
On my next trip, I found the smear of a footprint in the soft earth. With one arm supporting my pooch of a belly, I came down on my knees to examine the width, suspecting Dr. Little of invading my territory again. The thought made me ill, but I dared not accuse him for fear of being banned from the botanical garden again.
Or maybe it was Travel. The impression was from a man’s shoe and though distorted from the shift in sand, it was large enough to belong to him.
At the start of my third trimester, Dr. Little planned to order my immediate sequester, the bloom of my belly becoming too big to hide and a threat to exposing the project to anyone who was not part of the VWP team. With that in mind, I spent most of the days before that time in the botanical garden, sitting in front of my dig in a funk of unrest. It was also my eighteenth birthday.
“Now what?” I asked myself when I detected another section of earth that was disturbed by someone other than me. Raking my fingers through the soft dirt loosened a set of stones. Tossing them aside, I sifted what remained until I saw something glistening to my right.
A piece of clay pot lay in plain view like a gold coin from antiquity, centered on a brick of adobe, sparkling as the sunlight flashed through the lath. Examining it closely, I let my finger run over its jagged edge before placing it in my pocket. But why was it here in plain view? Someone had to have left it there.
If only I had enough time to find every last piece before I was banned from the botanical garden altogether. But with a baby on the way, restoring my clay pot had to wait.
Chapter Seventeen
Whose hand exhumed the ancient prize I was unsure, or maybe I had done it myself, setting it upon the wall of hardened mud, forgetting it was there, due to the toll of the pregnancy upon my torn soul. I wasn’t sure, but I kept it with me at all times, a reminder of my dig, thumbing it in my pocket.
And as I did so, two faces emerged in my mind’s eye—my mother and my grandfather. My baby would never know the two most important people in my life.
While I was confined to my apartment, a fresh magnolia blossom was sent to my apartment each morning, courtesy of GROW and at Travel’s request. “I’m counting down the days with these,” he said on the third delivery day.
“To what?” I asked, setting the blossom in a large, flat, wide-rimmed crystal bowl of water to join the other two.
“To your delivery date.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet, but I think I’ll need a bigger bowl.” I laughed, cradling my arm under my belly.
The bowl sat next to my clay pot, which was still in a state of restoration, held together with a chemical adhesive. One-sixth of the bowl was missing. I continued to keep that chip of pottery like a shiny new penny in my pocket, a good luck token to help me through my pregnancy.
It was still so strange, feeling and knowing that a baby was actually growing inside of me. So strange, in fact, that on several mornings, I’d wake up in disbelief until a little kick from the human life I was carrying knocked me back into reality. By midday, Travel’s smile was usually enough to put me in a better mood and make me forget my old life again.
Maternity clothes didn’t exist, so I resorted to extra-large T-shirts and pants with elastic waists until one afternoon when Ella, Dr. Love, and Magnum brought me a wardrobe from Apparel Five, modified by a TAILOR bot.
“These are great,” I said, holding up a pair of jeans. “Thank you so much!”
“There’s no need to thank us. We’d do anything for you. And you, too,” said Magnum, pressing his hand against my belly and hoping to feel a kick.
While they thought of my baby as a mini miracle, Travel regarded me as something more than human, someone to be worshipped and praised. To him I was a China doll, delicate and vulnerable, susceptible to illness. Fortunately, I found his ignorance amusing rather than annoying.
“How often do you think these rooms are free?” I asked him one evening while a team of bots filled the spare room in my apartment with baby furniture.
“Who knows? Honestly, I don’t really care, and when they are watching us, I’d rather not know. Neither one of us has anything to hide, right?” He was as disillusioned as any clone.
“I just have a feeling that the obscuras in the walls are on all the time in this apartment.”
“I doubt it, but if they are, they’re just doing it for your own safety and protection. They can’t let anything happen to you. You’re their golden girl. That’s why he’s here now,” he said, pointing to the MED, or bodyguard, as I liked to call it, standing against the wall, watching me with eyes that didn’t blink.
With one hand bracing my sore back, I lowered down onto the couch, and he joined me, clutching a pillow to wedge behind me. Cuddling up close, he pushed the pillow into place as I leaned forward. “Are you comfortable in there?” he asked my stomach.
“Hey, what about me? I’m the one with swollen feet and an aching back.”
“I’m sorry. How are you? Are you comfortable?”
But the sincerity in his tone wasn’t enough to fend off my agitation.
“As comfortable as a walking incubator can be,” I retorted, resting my crossed arms on my fat belly.
“You’re not a walking incubator,” he said.
“Yes, I am. That’s what I am to them. To all of them—Dr. Little, Dr. Pickford, the president—even to me.”
“You can’t think that way.”
“Why not? Because it’s not good for the baby?” I said sarcastically. Pushing up from the couch, I stood and cut across the living room to stand at the window.
He came up beside me. “Do you love our baby?”
“Of course I love her,” I said, offended.
“Really? Because sometimes I think—”
“Think what? That I resent her for making me fat and miserable, especially when I didn’t want to be pregnant in the first place?” I blurted, turning to confront him.
“Don’t be mad at me, but yeah, sometimes I think that. You don’t talk about her all the time like I do.”
He was right. He could go on for hours, talking about what she’d look like, how she’d probably be born with a full head of hair because he was and how her eyes would be brown like his instead of blue like mine because the brown gene is more dominant.
“Why would I when I don’t want to be pregnant?” I shouted.
And that’s when I c
ould no longer hold my pent-up tears. A flood of additional guilt erupted as well, the shame of spending my nights in bed, thinking about a miscarriage even though the image of dead fetuses was still so fresh in my mind.
Travel held me while I cried, my shoulders shaking uncontrollably, and when I settled down enough to speak I said, “I don’t resent our baby. How can I? She’s a victim in this program just like me. I didn’t have a choice and neither will she. I don’t resent her. I resent the project for forcing this on all of us.”
“They didn’t force it on me. I volunteered. I’m happy here with you. I want to be a father. I want to be a family.”
“Haven’t you ever asked yourself why they chose you?”
“Of course, and they told me. I was randomly selected from a group of healthy eighteen- to twenty-year-old males living in this division.” He pushed a strand of hair behind his ear, smiling naively, and my “I told you so” mentality dwindled.
“Yes, that’s right.” I sighed. “You were randomly selected.”
I let him believe that. Why tell him the truth? I carried enough lies and deception for the both of us.
“Look. I am happy. I’m happy that we’re friends.” I swallowed hard. “I’ll love her when I see her, and I’ll be a good mother to her no matter what.”
“Then let’s give her a name. Let’s name her now. Giving her a name will help you think of her as a person and not a thing.”
“Okay, I guess I can do that,” I said, although I knew it probably wouldn’t make a difference.
“I know. Why don’t we name her after your mother?”
“Victoria, are you kidding? My mother hated her name. She didn’t like it when people called her Vicki.”
“Then we’ll never call her Vicki, and we’ll make sure no one else does, either. I think Victoria is a beautiful name.”
“Then let’s use your mother’s name for her middle name.”
“Victoria Layne Carson. Yeah, I like that.”
“So do I. It’s perfect,” I said as the late-morning sun radiated though the apartment’s east-facing windows, creating patches of white light on the carpet and furniture.
Mirror X Page 17