by Adriana Ryan
I once saw a child, maybe six years old, who had a whole set of teeth embedded in the back of his head. He sat by the steps of my apartment, begging for scraps. A genetic mutation that seeped into his DNA, one of many caused by massive amounts of radiation still in the air his mother breathed, in the water she drank while pregnant with him. Those of us who are still fertile have this possible outcome to contend with. He was gone abruptly one day. I did not sleep for a week.
I reach the station just as the bus is pulling out and, sitting down, continue to watch the Nukeheads outside. One of the Maintenance workers is pulling on a frail old man when a chunk of the man’s hand falls off, splat onto the ground. His mouth opens in a howl I cannot hear.
I look away.
The woman in front of me, perhaps no older than Moon, is watching the Maintenance workers in rapture. I note her cashew-colored skin and think of Ceres. What would she say to me, if she saw the way I look away from things that bother me? She was always the brave one, even when she was barely old enough to walk or talk.
And just like that, a memory envelops me so the world before me falls away. It often happens this way when I think of Ceres; the world stops its orbit while I’m whisked away to a different time.
There used to be a little Nukehead girl where Ceres and I lived with our mother and Mica. After school, we’d go out to play behind the apartment building. The Nukeheads generally kept their distance from us Flockers, but this little girl was about five—older than Ceres, but younger than me. I suppose she didn’t have parents who could tell her not to stare at Flockers; that we were no good for her kind. I didn’t realize Ceres had been watching her. One day, she brought her pinwheel toy outside to play. Only, she took it to the little girl and handed it over silently. I remember being nervous that our mother would find out that we were being kind to a Nukehead child; they were looked at with disgust, as the pollutants of the gene pool they are. But Mother didn’t find out.
The next day, Ceres brought the girl another toy, a pair of plastic binoculars. In an effort to get her to stop, I told her the Nukehead girl probably didn’t have any use for her toys; that what she really wanted was likely food. In response, Ceres hid a piece of fruit from breakfast the next morning and gave that to her instead. I remember the girl; her forehead bulged out grotesquely and she had no hair. Her black eyes were like shallow cups, entirely empty of emotion. But that day, she smiled at my sister.
No matter what I said or how I explained it, Ceres could not seem to grasp that we might get punished for what she was doing. “But she’s little, like me, Vikki,” she’d say, her gold eyes wide and irresistible. “And you said it’s good to share.” I was relieved the day we came downstairs and the Nukehead girl was gone; likely cleaned up by Maintenance. I was born a coward.
CHAPTER SIX
When I get home, I hear noises from the bedroom. I call out, but Shale doesn’t answer. So I make my way to him. Dark shapes dot the floor, littered by Shale’s feet. I squint in the gloom, trying to make out what they are.
They’re documents from work. Files, binders, print-outs. He’s digging through my desk, his back to me.
“What are you doing?” My voice is soft—I’m too flummoxed to be accusatory.
Shale starts and turns around, his face flushed. He stares at me for a long minute, something flashing in his usually placid eyes. Then he stands up and gestures around him. “It’s too messy! It’s too messy and I can’t take it. How am I supposed to keep the place clean when it’s so messy? You’re too messy! I can’t deal with this.”
I approach him, holding my hands out, but he whirls around and begins to pace, muttering to himself.
“They’ll take me away because I’m not doing my job. If you get tired of the mess and complain, they’ll take me, Vika. You have to help me. Please, you’ve got to keep your desk clean. I can clean everything, but this desk, I just can’t seem to get it clean!”
“Okay,” I mutter. I smooth a hand over his arm and he slows down. “I’m sorry. I’ll clean it. I’ll be neater, I promise.”
He cannot have a breakdown. Such things are common among the Husbands. After all their training in the Husbandry, the pressure to keep house, serve their Matches, and create a healthy child becomes too much. Women entering the Match program are even warned about it, about the warning signs and what to do when you spot them.
The first thing is to not agitate them. A Husband, no matter how complacent he might be otherwise, could get violent during a breakdown. Men are physically stronger than women as a biological fact, but we are more intelligent. Therefore, we must use psychology to calm them down.
Shale sighs and slumps onto the bed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
“It’s alright,” I say. “It’s the pressure. After all the training you’ve had, it’s now time for the actual procedure. That sometimes affects you mentally. It’s normal.”
“Thank you for not being angry.” Shale runs a hand through his hair. “Are you going to send me back to the Match Clinic?”
I know at the very least that I should have him adjusted. The Match Doctor will ask me about the symptoms he portrayed and then prescribe medication that will calm him. But it would also affect his sexual performance. So I shake my head.
“No,” I say. “We’ll let this one go, I think.”
When he thanks me again for understanding, I try not to feel guilty.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Time is a traitor. For twenty years, it insisted on slipping carefully by, dancing and twisting sinuously past. It hid behind corners ahead, just out of reach. Childhood stretched out, long and torturous. Much longer, it seemed, than only seventeen years.
Mica, being three years older than me, was forced into the role of nanny after Ceres was born because our mother chose not to keep her Husband on after implantation was successful. Mica was, after all, eleven—more than old enough to begin learning his future occupation. But Ceres’s crying and neediness were too much for him to handle. All too often he’d slip out the door shortly after our mother left for work, leaving me to tend to the baby until I was to leave for school. He’d return at that point, sullen-faced and stoic, and silently take her from me. I hated leaving her, hated every moment I spent in a school room with other solemn girls training to be patriots.
After Ceres was taken, I waited to turn seventeen, to leave that life behind. Then I waited to turn twenty so I could qualify for the Match process. And after that it was time to wait to see if Shale’s sperm had fertilized my egg.
But now, when I need it to slow down, when I beg for one more moment, it rushes past, a gale whooshing through a tunnel. And so, two weeks after I’ve been matched with a Husband, I walk back into the Match Clinic.
I am menstruating.
Shale is required to go with me to this meeting. After all, they aren’t sure at this point whether the failure is mine, his, or rests squarely on both our shoulders. This is attempt one. We have five more attempts and then…Io’s face flashes through my mind. I wrestle it out.
We are shown to an examination room by a terse-lipped nurse. Her uniform is a sinister blue-black, her eyes full of judgment, her face a mask of contempt. She closes the door without a word.
I sit on the exam table, the roll of plastic rustling under me like a nest of snakes. I close my eyes and take a breath.
“Are you worried?” Shale asks.
I look into his eyes, trying to keep my expression bland. “No. It’s only our first try. Very few women get pregnant the first time around.” I don’t add that my mother had been one of those women with all three of her offspring.
The Match Doctor comes in, the same one who’d assigned Shale to me. There’s a hardness to her eyes this time. She’s already distancing herself from me, I think. It must make it easier when she has to report me to the Escorts.
“You’re menstruating.” She shuts her folder with a clap, the sound turgid with disparagement.
“Yes. But i
t’s our first attempt,” I answer. I stare at her blindingly white rubber boots.
She doesn’t answer, but turns around and snaps on a pair of gloves. She adds a mask over her mouth and comes forward. “Lie down.” Her voice is muffled and robotic.
Shale looks away as I lie down and put my feet in the stirrups. The doctor inserts her fingers in me, prods. I make it a point to not wince, to keep my eyes open and on hers. She doesn’t look at me. “Everything feels okay.” She turns to Shale. “Your turn.”
I pull my underwear up, then smooth my skirt down and step away from the table. Shale passes by me, and while the doctor’s back is turned, reaches for my hand and squeezes it. I dart a glance at him but he is already lying down on the table, awaiting his turn.
His examination is quicker, but not gentler.
“Everything is okay,” the doctor repeats. “You must try harder. Have you read the fertility booklet?”
“Yes,” I answer. “And I’m taking the supplements, as is Shale.”
She roves her eyes over us. “Good. We’ll see you in a month. Hopefully with better news.”
We have been dismissed.
Shale makes a few attempts at conversation, but I can’t bring myself to respond. I leave him at the door to the Clinic and turn left down the hallway to go to my office. The zero armband bites into my arm, cutting off blood flow. I think about loosening it, but it is a good lesson to me, a good reminder of what I am. I have to change. There is no other option.
When I get to the office, I stride to my seat, my face aflame. Everyone knows why I am late, where I have been. I am tarnished with the sour scent of failure. Io’s space is still unoccupied; it seems to be beckoning me.
Moon’s green eyebrows are pulled together, her eyes squinted as she sits waiting. “How was the appointment?”
I shrug and turn on the computer. I will not give her the satisfaction of knowing exactly what the doctor said or did, of knowing the shame and pain with which I’ve been branded.
“Did you listen to the bulletin this morning?” She reaches for her teacup, her hand trembling.
“No.” I can feel time slowing down again, digging its claws into space and dragging by on its swollen belly, legs akimbo. “What did it say?”
“Emigration numbers have fallen. It’s bottlenecking.” Moon blinks rapidly.
My heart turns to stone and falls into my stomach. Bottlenecking. This is what we’ve all been dreading, those of us still stuck in New Amana. China only wants us if we’re healthy, but even then, they don’t want an unlimited supply of us. There are only so many resources to go around, and they have children to look after, too. It has just become even harder to escape. It has become a surefire death sentence if I cannot conceive a baby soon.
I might not get all five attempts I thought I had left.
There is a hush in the office as we type on our terminals, not daring to look at each other. The Sparks amongst us are surely desperately looking for a reason to turn people in, desperate for an assured place on the ships out.
When the whistle blows, I gather up my things and leave in silence. It’s a bizarre sight—green-suited and -skirted workers filing out in a funeral procession. The Escort sirens in the distance are the dirge. I imagine someone from across the globe watching us, wondering whom we are mourning. They would not know we are mourning ourselves.
Outside, the world has turned a slate gray. There is no distinction between the concrete buildings, the concrete sidewalks, and the oozing gray sky. There is no horizon.
I walk past Shale before I realize he has come for me. He smiles, the gesture jarring after what I have just learned. Doesn’t he understand the gravity of our situation? Wasn’t he listening to the news bulletin about the bottleneck?
“What are you doing here?” I don’t mean to sound harsh, but the words tumble like pieces of stones out of my mouth.
“I thought I’d accompany you home.” He puts his hands into the pockets of his light blue Husband coveralls. “If you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind.” I begin to walk, deciding I will wait to convey the bad news until I absolutely have to. I wish I could be as carefree as Shale, my biggest problem how small to slice the potatoes.
As we near the bus station, I pick up a steady, deep thrumming in the air. I can’t tell where it is coming from, only that it vibrates in my ears and chest. I look at Shale to see if he hears it, too. His eyes are riveted on something ahead of us.
I try to follow his gaze, and see what looks like a wall of orange bricks about thirty yards ahead. Squinting, I pick up the pace. “What is that?”
As we get closer, I answer my own question. “Maintenance workers.” A line of them, facing a seething, dark crowd of Rads. Radicals.
The Radicals are mostly men in their twenties, thirties, and forties; either men who went underground instead of conforming to the conventional way of life by becoming Husbands or men who tried going the path the government espouses before eschewing it completely. Rads are dissatisfied with the feminist angle of the government, and oppose nearly everything it does, from the Asylums that manage the Défectueux to the Match process. They wear black to symbolize their oppression.
From about twenty feet away, I join a loose knot of office workers who’ve stopped at the sight. The Rads are holding large signs, proclaiming sentiments such as:
Free the Asylum Victims!
Asylum is Torture! and
Asylum=Death|Free Our Children
I wonder what’s caused this new flare-up. The Rads have always been vocal about “their” daughters being taken away, even though they know full well going into the Match process that the children belong solely to the female.
The Maintenance worker at the very front raises a megaphone. “This is your last warning. Disperse immediately,” he says.
But the Rads keep on intoning their chant, “Asylum is death.” Their voices are monotonous, vibrations without substance. It is as if they know what’s coming next.
The Maintenance workers in the back have screwed large hoses into metal tanks, and pass the hoses to the men in the front. These men have donned masks and suits that look more heavy-duty than their usual uniforms. My skin begins to tingle. I can sense the violence in the air. If I lick my finger and stick it up, it will spark.
The acid belches out of the hoses.
There’s a hush as the first of the streams hits the Rads. Time melts into a puddle. I see the individual droplets of the acid, tinged a faint lavender.
And then the screaming starts.
The crowd dissipates, finally following orders. Those who can still run, do. The men who were hit first fall like toy soldiers, their skin immediately melting off their bodies. Blood and flesh splatter on the asphalt beneath them.
One of the men runs toward us, the onlookers, and we back away. His eyes are a runny yellow-white like egg yolk, and they’re sliding down his face. He claws at them, yelling, Help me. But he is beyond help. Well beyond help.
“Dear God,” Shale mutters. He is lucky there is such mayhem, or the Maintenance workers might turn their hoses on him for the blasphemy. There is no God here.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Back at home, we sip our tea as if it’s the most important activity. We have said nothing since we got on the bus. I don’t know what thought to focus on—the protesters bathed in acid or the incessant buzzing in my head that says my end is coming soon. Death is on everyone’s doorstep. Death is hungry.
Shale stands up and walks stiffly to the radio. He turns the knob till it clicks on to the only station we receive, the National News Bulletin or NNB. The announcer drones on about the water shortage, then begins to talk about the emigration bottlenecking, urging people to not panic, as if that ever works. I watch Shale to see if he is upset after our failure at conception, but his face is impassive. After ten minutes, he turns it off.
“They’re not reporting it,” he says.
“Reporting what?”
“Whate
ver the Rads were protesting out there. Seemed like there might’ve been something happening in the Asylums.” There is an expectant look on Shale’s face, but I don’t understand it.
“You can’t trust the Rads. They’re always on about something.” I sip my tea again. The Radicals are not the only dissident group. There have been murmurs of a group called the “Sympathetics” for years. They’re supposedly high-ranking government officials, sympathetic to rebel causes such as freeing the Défectueux from the Asylums and protecting Nukeheads. I’ve never witnessed any activity to suggest that the group actually exists. Unfortunately, the Rads are much more vocal.
“It’s a bit strange that they suddenly swarmed the streets. There must be a reason.”
I laugh, but the sound is muted, as if the room is sucking up any suggestion of emotion. “The Rads don’t need a reason. They’re terrorists. They delight in causing a ruckus, damaging morale.” I am saying what I’ve been trained to say. We are taught to be alert to people questioning the government. Being in the field that I am, I cannot allow any hint of disloyalty in my life.
Shale stares at me with that curious expectant expression before he nods and turns away.
There is a knock at the door. Shale answers and my mother steps through, royal in her purple uniform.
“Mother,” I say. “Won’t you sit down? Would you like a cup of tea?”
“No, thank you.” She remains by the door. “I came by to see how your appointment went at the Match Clinic.”
This is a rhetorical statement, an attempt at a rude awakening. My mother likely already knows I haven’t been successful this month. Therefore, she will try to get me to see that I need to redouble my efforts so I can be considered for emigration. I am not sure if it is lost on her that there is not much I can do in the matter that I am not already doing. She got pregnant on the first try all three times, and I suspect that to her, it is my fault that I am not pregnant already. I don’t need to ask her how she knows I am not pregnant or that I had my appointment this morning—she used to be an obstetrician, and is now one of the heads of the Center for Protection of Progeny.