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by Gregory Scott Katsoulis

  Then Saretha’s lip began to quiver. She pulled my mother in and held her too tight. She was supposed to tell them, but a horrible, gasping sound erupted instead. It was worse than her screams when Sam had been dropped. She had needed to pull herself together then. Now my parents were here, and her emotions came pouring out. She couldn’t say the words, so I had to.

  “Rog’s people killed him,” I said, holding back the same painful grief. If she fell apart, I couldn’t. They had to know. I heard the darkness in my voice and remembered my face from the mirror, imagining what it must be like for them to see me so changed.

  “But why?” my father asked, as if there could be no explanation.

  “I...” My voice quavered. How could I explain that they’d killed him to make me speak? How could I say those words?

  “Shhh...” he said before I could continue. He wasn’t really looking for an answer. He was expressing his distress. We could explain the details later, when reality had sunk in.

  My father pulled me into a sorrowful hug. I watched the revelers go on, unaware of us in our grief. The contrast was excruciating, but they couldn’t know how our mood had shifted. We looked just exactly as we had a moment ago in our joyful reunion. So many of them seemed happy, but I suddenly understood the ones who stood there, bewildered, unable to celebrate. One of them, frozen in place, was staring right at me. A cold shock prickled down my back. He looked like Sam. How could he look like Sam?

  He was much too young to be Sam. I could see that right away. This was what Sam had looked like at five. He had Sam’s eyes—or at least the same shape. They were dark, so dark they seemed nearly black in the gleaming light. And he was so gaunt—there was none of Sam’s cherublike sweetness about him.

  The boy walked toward us, his head cocked in confusion. He pointed at me with a jabbing finger and reached out for my parents. My father broke off our hug and picked him up carefully.

  “You can talk,” he said, wiping a smudge of dirt off the boy’s cheek. My heart felt like it had stopped. “You can say anything you like now.”

  Saretha looked the way I felt. She was gaping at the boy. Who was he? “Mom?” she managed to ask.

  Our mother’s face contorted with distress, her eyes shifting from the boy to us. Something wasn’t right.

  “Mom,” Saretha repeated, tugging at our mother’s sleeve, looking like she’d seen a ghost. “Who is that?”

  “This is your brother,” my mother said, sucking in air through her teeth. “His name is Santos359™.”

  Santos359™: $53.99

  I stumbled back in shock, flashing to what Kiely had told me about how the corporations owned any children born from Indenture. Born into slavery.

  Saretha trembled, yet somehow managed to smile at the small boy. She tried to coax him toward her, but he clung to our father. I forced myself to smile, too, despite feeling weak and sick. Up close, he looked even more like Sam, but with the life drained from him. I examined his fingers, browned by the sun and yellowed with pollen.

  “Was he working in the fields?” I asked. My voice came out horrified and accusatory. But how else could I say it? Was he a slave?

  “Once he could do it, they didn’t offer a choice,” my dad explained, putting a hand on the boy’s head, as if that might protect him now.

  “It’s just brushing pollen,” Saretha said. She painted at the air with a small pretend brush.

  My mother blinked at her, shocked, then sad. Some part of Saretha was always going to try to ignore the horrors of the world. I couldn’t do the same. I could hear Santos359™ breathing through his mouth—short, careful little breaths. He hadn’t said a word.

  My brother. A boy I hadn’t known existed until now.

  Something snapped in me. “Why didn’t you tell us!” I cried. I would have pounded on my father if he hadn’t been holding that child.

  “We couldn’t tell you,” he said, lifting Santos359™ a little higher. My brother looked slight and underfed. He watched us with mild interest, but didn’t seem to understand what was going on. My father tried to keep the tone of his voice calm, but bitterness played at the edges. “Our Terms of Service prohibited it. We were forbidden to speak about him, or he would have been taken away. Remember, we are—were—barely allowed to speak at all. Their terms specifically said that we were never to refer to him as our son, or part of our family. They were very clear that he wasn’t ours.”

  “Not yours?” I asked through the contracting lump in my throat.

  “He’s owned by MonSantos™,” my mother said, anger visible in her cheeks. “They say he is theirs.” She spit the last word with the venom of a pit viper.

  My father’s face darkened as he recited the Legalese: “You acknowledge and agree that any and all designs, works, creations, construction, or formation created while in service to Agropollination™ shall belong to and shall be the sole and exclusive property of Agropollination™ Inc.; its parent company, MonSantos™; and any subsidiaries thereof.”

  He finished the recitation with a kiss on Santos359™’s forehead, like a blessing that might protect him.

  “But we’re his family,” Saretha said, as if the Lawyers for MonSantos™ might be swayed by compassion.

  “His very existence is proprietary information,” my dad replied. He turned to the kids dancing in a tight pack near the trumpets. “They own all these kids. They laid claim to their likenesses and the sounds of their voices. They Patented their DNA.”

  Saretha moved toward Santos359™, crying both in joy and horror. Her arms went out to take him from our father, but he shied away again, curling his head down into our father’s neck. I stood, frozen, an icy horror prickling across my skin.

  “I’m your sister, Santos,” Saretha cooed to him.

  “359,” my mother corrected. “He is Santos359™. That one is Santos362™,” she said, pointing to a boy the same age in the crowd, then another who looked slightly older. “That one is Santos248™. They didn’t even allow us to name our own children.”

  “You should change it,” I said, my thoughts jumbled and fighting to get out. “That isn’t his name. How could you let them do it?” I cried.

  Tears formed in my mother’s eyes. My words were unfair. I knew she had no choice.

  “If we didn’t do exactly as they asked, they would have taken him away,” she said, and then she weighed her next words carefully, unsure if I was ready to hear them. “They would have changed him—altered his genes and made him into a brute they could control. They would have made him into little more than an animal to command.”

  I thought of Uthondo and Bertrand and shivered. “They call them Modifieds,” I whispered.

  I told myself he was safe now. But only for now. The trial loomed—a trial we would lose. All of us would be sent away to do things far worse than pollinating. My parents were supposed to come with us, to give us a chance, but how could I ask them now?

  A hand caressed my shoulder, all knuckle and bone.

  “You’re so tall,” my mother said. I turned, and my heart broke a little as we stood eye to eye. We hadn’t been face-to-face in seven years—of course I was taller now. I grabbed her and held on, and she did the same to me.

  They’d taken my mother from me and made me think that it was normal. My body heated with anger. I tried not to let the fury be the only thing that lived in this moment, but an awful sound came out of me—a low, terrible groan like the one I’d made the day Sam died.

  “I love you,” my mother said. “I love you so much.” Her eyes were streaming tears, and so were mine. I’d never doubted that love, not once. They could keep us all apart, but they couldn’t take that away from us. A distant pang twinged at my arm where my Cuff had been. I wanted some peace, but my thoughts were churning too fast. There were so many things I couldn’t express.

  The music went on, unconcerned with us
. The drummer drummed faster, the bass notes thudding in my gut.

  “I don’t think he likes me,” Saretha said, failing to coax a smile from Santos359™.

  “He needs time,” my father said, his voice trembling. His neck was reddening. “We couldn’t afford to raise him the way...” His words choked off in anger and frustration. “That’s going to change now. Now that we’re together.”

  My heart sank. I wanted everything to be over—for this to be happily-ever-after. All of us did. But that couldn’t be.

  “Has anyone told you about Portland?” I asked, turning away, unable to look at them.

  “That you took out Rog’s WiFi?” my mother asked, pride and emotion swelling in her voice. “Yes. They shut down all our access to the news after that.”

  “We have to go back,” I said, shaking my head.

  “No, honey, you can’t go back. It’s too dangerous,” my father said. He turned me around to look at him, so I would know he was serious. He didn’t realize the plan was meant for all of us.

  “We have to,” Saretha said. “They need me to sue the Rogs.”

  “For what?” my mother burst out. They didn’t know about Carol Amanda Harving.

  I pulled myself together. We couldn’t all fall apart. I understood now why our parents hadn’t looked for us. They’d made the right choice, fleeing here. If we won this case for Téjico, it would mean all these people—the escaped Indentureds, and whoever had followed—could live safely.

  But not me. Not me and, I realized with horror, not Santos359™. MonSantos™ would claim him. Maybe my parents, too, or maybe they would be able to return with Saretha. I could sacrifice myself for this, but I couldn’t sacrifice this little boy.

  “You need to change his name,” I said, refusing to let my emotions take control.

  My parents glanced at each other, then back at me.

  “You need to change all of your names, right now,” I insisted in an intense whisper.

  “They have to go to Portland, Speth,” Saretha insisted. “We need them for the case.”

  “No,” I said firmly. My father’s head cocked to one side, as if he wondered when I’d taken charge. “You and I will be enough. They need to take care of him,” I said, looking down at Santos359™’s hollow eyes.

  Saretha looked at me like I’d gone off the deep end. “Speth, they need to be witnesses. We need them to prove I’m their daughter. Otherwise the Rogs will win for sure.”

  “What are you talking about?” my mother asked.

  I kept my eyes on Santos359™. I’d never know if I’d failed Sam back on that bridge, but I knew I couldn’t fail this boy.

  “You can’t be our parents,” I said, forcing myself to keep it together. “Rog will win no matter what we do. He’ll take anyone who shows up on American® soil.”

  “Then you can’t go!” my father said.

  “We have to,” I said, turning to Saretha. “But he can’t.”

  I pointed to our new brother. He had a tentative hand out now, reaching for Saretha’s long hair, more like a baby than a small child. They’d already changed him. He didn’t have the joy a child should. He was stunted. We had probably been stunted, too—probably still were. We’d all grown up in a place where our parents could barely talk, though he got the worst of it by far. I would not let them change him more. “He has to stay,” I said resolutely.

  Saretha’s shoulders slumped. I knew she wanted to argue, maybe to prove she was still the big sister, but she knew I was right. She drew herself up again. “Mom and Dad have to stay, too,” she said to me, like I still needed to be convinced. She turned to them. “You have to take care of Santos.”

  I nodded to support her. My eyes scanned the crowd, seeing the adults who were trying to make the best of their new life, and the ones who couldn’t. On the far side of the courtyard, I saw Arturo, smiling and talking to a pair of men who were printing desserts and slicing some kind of food from a rotating spit. I waved for him to come over, already agonizing over how all-too-brief our reunion had been.

  “But what about you?” my mother asked, worry masked by sorrow in her eyes. She wanted answers, but instead I gave her the sign of the zippered lips. She looked at my father and Santos359™. She opened her mouth to speak, but then understood. She made the sign back to me and grabbed me for one last hug.

  “Please come back to us,” she said.

  “I’ll try,” I said, knowing there was nothing to be done. My father reached out his free arm and embraced me, too.

  Arturo walked over with a broad smile, no doubt thinking we’d had a happy, if emotional, reunion, but his smile fell as he got closer and sensed our mood.

  “Is everything okay?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “They don’t know where our parents are.” Arturo stared at me in disbelief. Tears came to my eyes, and I let them come. I had plenty to feel sad about. “They say they didn’t make it out.”

  My mother shook her head, looking at the ground.

  “Forgive me,” Arturo said, glancing at my mother and father. “I was certain they were your parents,” he whispered to me. He definitely suspected something—of course he did. My mother and I looked too much alike. I hadn’t realized that was part of what I had seen in the mirror, but we both had the same eyes—maybe because we’d suffered the same sadness of being ripped apart.

  “Family friends,” Saretha said unsteadily.

  “Oh,” Arturo replied, looking downcast. “It is very unusual for the genetic test to be wrong.” He had to know this was a ruse, but he bit his lip.

  “The test can’t always be correct,” I said.

  He paused for a moment longer, then said, “Perhaps that is why it returned three results.” I looked at him gratefully, knowing that he didn’t really believe this. “You will have to do this alone.”

  “Not alone,” I said.

  “We’ll be together,” Saretha said to him. This brought me some comfort. My parents, too, I thought. There was no reason to dash their hopes that we would be together again soon.

  I wiped my eyes and put aside my heartache. I looked around, partly for show, but also to take in everything and remind myself how much was at stake. I wanted to remember what I was fighting for. So many lives had been ripped apart. Only Saretha and I had a chance to keep it from happening again in the future.

  My parents melted reluctantly into the crowd, arms wrapped protectively around Santos359™. I watched them walk away, hoping they would be happy.

  There was just one last task for us to do here. Somewhere in this mass of people, I remembered, was Sera’s mother. I needed to tell her what had happened to her daughter. I owed Sera that, at least. The idea weighed me down, but then I spotted Mrs. Croate. A jolt of hope ran through me as I realized that I was able to recognize her because she looked so much like her daughter.

  If Mrs. Croate agreed to come to Portland, we wouldn’t need our parents with us to win the case. We would be able to prove without a doubt that Sera wasn’t Carol Amanda Harving—because Mrs. Croate shared her daughter’s DNA.

  The Route Revealed: $54.97

  Like my parents, Mrs. Croate had woken before sunrise each day, drunk three cups of Metlatonic™ and was transported to whatever field they ordered her to pollinate. Once there, she’d mindlessly brushed pollen where she’d been instructed. She was warned to work faster if she worked too slow. She was warned to keep her pace when she worked at the speed the company expected. If she worked faster, she said, they’d expected her to match that speed from then on.

  “Was a thin line to walk. They weren’t gentle about it,” she’d said without any real feeling. “Theyn’t much reason to forgive mistakes.”

  We had told her about what the Rogs had in store for Sera, and she agreed to help before we could fully ask. The Lawyers and officials quickly forgot about our parents once th
ey realized how much more useful Mrs. Croate would be as both witness and evidence. Now she sat with Saretha and me in a car, journeying on a route Arturo insisted would provide a secret way into Portland.

  Mrs. Croate stared out into space for a good long while, then said, “I’ll be glad to see Sera.” She had a low, raspy voice from years of misery and disuse. “Nice to be able to talk,” she added. “Even if I sound like a sickly toad.”

  I soaked up everything she told us about what life had been like in Crab Creek. Even if it was miserable information, it gave me a glimpse into what my parents had endured, and made me feel closer to them. It made me sad, though, that I was able to talk to her when Sera couldn’t. It wasn’t fair. Once again, Sera was being robbed of something I was given.

  “Worked us year-round ’th whatever they could find,” Mrs. Croate said. “Wasn’t just pol-nation. Spoke no more than a few words allotted each day. Could save them up, if it didn’t interfere with my work. Parents like yours saved theirs best they could to call a few times a year. Wouldn’t let me talk to Sera. Her guardian said I wasn’t a good prospect, whatever that meant. Too prone to muttering, I know that. And I was alone. Your ’rents had chother...and 359,” she added, reflecting on her loneliness. “That’s a hard worry. Boy had to work once he could walk. Can’t turn a kid out right in those circumstances. Your dad says that boy can speak, but I’ve never heard it.”

  I wished it were my parents I was sitting with on this journey instead of her. I felt a little guilty about that, but I doubted anyone could blame me. I had to pretend they hadn’t been found. I had to make peace with the fact that I probably wouldn’t see them again. We hadn’t had enough time together. But Mrs. Croate was the next closest thing, and she didn’t mind talking. Nothing seemed to upset her—or make her happy.

  “I turned all that off long ago,” she said.

  “Sera will be glad to see you,” I said, trying to make her feel better.

  “I doubt that,” she replied with a shrug. “If them Rogs offered her a life as a star, I ’spect she’ll be might put out I’m there to ruin it.”