by Various
The bullet pierced the red circle in the center of the forehead. The Range Master said nothing. He nodded for me to shoot again. My next bullet went through the first hole. Tinnenbaum stood completely still, staring at the target as if it had to be some trick. Other shooters, all Enders, stopped their practice to watch me hit the same spot, every time.
We continued the testing with a variety of guns, so I also impressed them with the number of firearms I could handle. Thanks, Dad.
On the drive back, Tinnenbaum’s nose wasn’t so wrinkled. He angled his mini’s base so I could read the airscreen. It displayed my contract.
I skipped to the important parts: three rentals and the payment. The money would be enough to pay for an apartment for a couple of years. And to bribe an adult to sign the lease for us.
“That amount. It’s the same as before you tested me.”
“That’s right.”
“Shouldn’t my skill level have bumped me up to a higher stipend?” Why not go for it, I thought.
His smile faded. “You drive a hard bargain. For a minor.” He sighed and typed in better numbers. “How’s that?”
I remembered something my dad had taught me to ask. “What are the risks?” I said. “What can go wrong?”
“No procedure is without risks. However, we’ve taken every precaution to protect our valuable assets.”
“Meaning me.”
He nodded. “You can be assured that in twelve months of operation, we have not had a single problem.”
That wasn’t a long time. But I needed the money more than I needed a better answer. What would my dad have said about this? I pushed the thought out of my mind.
“The hard part is over,” Tinnenbaum said. “The rest is as easy as drifting off to sleep.”
My brother could be warm every night. A real home. And we’d have it after only three rentals. I touched the airscreen and my fingerprint appeared on the contract, sealing the deal. Tinnenbaum gazed out the limo window, trying to look casual. But I noticed his leg had an uncontrollable nervous twitch.
• • •
When we arrived back at the body bank, I wondered if Mr. Tinnenbaum would introduce me to the tall man from before. But we never saw him. Instead, Tinnenbaum handed me off to Doris.
“Wait till you see what Doris has in store for you.” He grinned and then disappeared down the hallway.
“It’s time to begin your makeover.” Doris waved her wrist like she was my fairy godmother.
“Makeover?”
Doris eyed me from toe to head. My hand instinctively touched the end of my stringy hair, as if to keep her from chopping it off.
“You don’t think we’re going to present you like this, do you?”
I pulled my sleeve over my hand and wiped my face. She reached for my arm.
“You’re one lucky girl. We’re going to give you a free makeover, top to bottom.”
She examined my hand. Her nails glowed with a dazzling iridescent polish that reminded me of an abalone shell. Mine looked like I’d dug through tar at the beach.
“We have a lot of work to do.” Doris put her hand on my back, guiding me toward a set of double doors. “You’re not going to recognize yourself when we’re done with you.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
PORTRAIT OF A SPORE
by Lissa Price
First published in the paperback of Starters (2012), by Ember
• • • •
The Spore, in an unnamed Pac Rim country, sometime in the future.
THE TINY SPORE comes into being. And the first thing he feels is… certainty.
An intense sense of purpose for his existence burns inside him, a stubborn flame that nothing will extinguish.
He doesn’t know what that purpose is; he only feels it. So with it comes a longing.
The answer must be out there. Somewhere.
This is confusing to him. It is difficult, not knowing what anything is.
Imagine how he feels, so full of purpose. But for what?
• • •
Barbara Woodland, at home in Los Angeles, on a summer Tuesday, 9 a.m.
The morning sun shines golden through my kitchen window, unaware that the world has changed. The coffee smells like it always has, rich with the promise of comfort, but it’s a cruel lie. It only reminds me how we are going through the motions.
I pour the coffee into two cups, one for me, one for Ray. One of the mugs has a picture of our family on vacation at the beach, before the war. Tyler was five, Callie fourteen. We were all smiling, completely unaware that our simple lives were about to change so much.
I take the other mug, the plain one, and go into the living room.
Where are the kids?
I look out the window, past my red roses twining around our white fence, and see Heather in her SUV with Darren in the backseat. They’re waiting for Tyler. I wave, and they wave back with guarded smiles.
“Tyler!” I shout. “Darren’s here. Hurry!”
A rustling comes from Tyler’s bedroom, but it’s Ray who comes out of the hall, jiggling his keys in his hand.
“Coffee’s in the kitchen.” I try to sound casual, but my voice cracks.
Ray glances out the window and spots Heather’s SUV. “Where’s Tyler going?” His eyes challenge me.
“They’ve planned this for weeks.” I sip my coffee. “They’re going to the natural history museum.”
“It’s still open?”
I nod. “Volunteers.”
His face can’t hide his concern. He lowers his voice. “You heard the news?”
“Of course,” I whisper. “It came over my phone.”
“Then why on earth are you letting him go?”
“Because it’s something for him to do. And Heather’s willing to take them. And it’s indoors.”
He shakes his head. “I’m late. I’d better go.”
He leans in and kisses me. I taste fear on his lips. He pulls away.
“What’re you doing today?” His voice is a mix of anxiety and a pretense of sounding casual.
“Getting groceries. Stocking up.” I shrug. “Anything you want?”
“Tyler’s inhalers. And if they have peanut butter, get extra for him, even if they’re overcharging. You taking Callie?”
I nod. “Better than leaving her here alone.”
“Be careful,” he says, his voice as raw as a scraped knee.
I see a flicker in his eyes and a hesitation. He wants to kiss me again, I guess, but doesn’t want to make the moment too dramatic. He backs away, his eyes reluctant, and heads for the rear door.
“Tyler!” I shout again.
Callie comes out with her brother. She struggles to slip Tyler’s backpack over his shoulder while he’s moving. He coughs.
“Do you have your puffer?” I ask him.
He pulls the inhaler out of his pocket to show me.
“Good.”
He coughs again. Please not another cold. This is not the time.
“Cover your mouth,” I say, and rub his head.
Callie opens the door. Before Tyler can rush out, I grab him and give him a hug. I want to hold him forever.
“Mom, he’s late,” Callie says.
I make myself release him, and he rushes out to the car. Callie gives me a look like I’m crazy. We stand in the doorway and watch as Tyler gets in the backseat with Darren. Tyler produces a slime dancer from his pocket and wiggles it in front of Darren. Both boys laugh. I hate that thing, but it almost makes me smile.
Heather shoots me a nervous glance as she pulls away from the curb.
• • •
The Spore, later
The spore’s world is turned upside down as he goes sliding, free-falling, against his will, tumbling over and over, down, down.
Until he stops.
He is disoriented.
He tries to get his bearings, but soon others like him come rolling in, bumping him, tossing him up and over. Finally
he settles in the middle of many more like himself.
Sadness sets in as the spore realizes his freedom is gone. He is aware that he is no longer alone with endless possibilities.
But a thought occurs to him. Maybe if he joins forces with the others, then together they will find some purpose. It must be possible. He reaches out to his neighbor to his left.
Hello, friend.
But the neighbor hisses back. No real communication, just a bump that sends him rolling on top of the neighbor to his right, then bouncing over him. He lands and settles in a new spot. But quickly he is pushed away and up. He floats higher and bounces down.
The little spore is too dizzy to do anything but try to gather himself.
Out of the silence, someone near him communicates.
Relax. We’re just like you.
The spore tries to turn himself to face this new neighbor but can’t.
Why are we here? the spore asks.
You mean you don’t know?
• • •
Barbara Woodland, home, 9:15 a.m.
As I stand beside Callie at the door and we watch Tyler leave, I feel my legs shaking uncontrollably. I will them to stop, but it’s not working.
“What’s the matter?” Callie asks as I shut the door.
I avoid her eyes. “Why can’t your brother ever be on time?”
I walk through the living room to the kitchen to give myself some space, but she follows.
“The museum will still be there, Mom,” she says. “Even if they’re ten minutes late.”
“It’s not nice to make people wait.”
I step into the laundry room off the kitchen and open the dryer.
“You’re just scared,” Callie says.
Her eyes flash at me. I see my own fear reflected in her features, and it frightens me more.
I look at her. “What do you know?”
I realize I’ve barked it out, but it’s too late to take it back. She folds her arms and says nothing—her idea of punishment for withholding information? Then she speaks.
“I’ve heard they have… spores.”
A shiver goes up the back of my neck at hearing that word. I dump the clothing from the dryer into the basket.
“Don’t say that, Callie.”
“Why? Because it’s not true? Isn’t that what they’re calling them?”
“That doesn’t mean you have to repeat it.”
The laundry feels like it weighs a hundred pounds. I carry it out of the kitchen, into the hall, to my bedroom. She stays on my heels. I sort the clothing into drawers and wonder if we will live long enough to wear these socks again. Callie flops onto our king-size bed, looking very small.
“You can’t hide this from me,” she says. “I’ll read about it on the Pages.”
I clutch a pair of socks in my hand, then drop them back in the basket. I turn to see Callie staring up at the ceiling. I see a vulnerable girl, a daughter, my daughter, and I find the mother in me to soothe her. I sit on the edge of the bed and stroke her baby-fine hair.
“What do you know?” I ask, this time softly.
“That the Pac Rim is moving their ships closer to the coast. Aircraft carriers.”
“But they’re not here yet.”
“No, but they say they’ve got the spores and they’re going to fly jets that will shoot missiles in the air with them. At us.”
“They said that months ago. And it didn’t happen.” I continue to stroke her hair.
She sits up. “Infectious, engineered spores. If they get into our lungs, they’ll kill us. If they get on our skin, they’ll be absorbed. We’ll die.”
I’ve heard it too. Not instant death, but death just the same. I pull her sleeve off her shoulder, exposing her upper arm. I point to a red mark there.
“You see that?” I say. “That will protect you.”
“Yeah, from the flu.”
“That’s just what they told you, to avoid panic. But it’s a vaccine to protect you against the spores.”
She looks down at her arm, staring at the small red spot. “Vaccine? For the spores?”
We both stare at the mark.
A month ago, her upper arm was perfect. Just smooth skin. We were standing in a long line at what used to be the high school gymnasium. It was just before the schools closed. What parent wanted to risk having their kids in school with the war escalating? It seems like so long ago, but it’s been a little over a year since the Pac Rim fought with our ships in the Pacific Ocean, causing a great loss of life and riddling the coastline with broken ships from both sides. Ordnance and debris, even body parts washed ashore. Barbed-wire fences were erected to close off the beaches, to protect people from the spilled chemicals and potential bombbots. It pained me to see it. Ray and I stood there with other onlookers, remembering the pale yellow sand and blue water just months before. Now that sand was stained black from the oil of the corpses of the death ships.
And why? Same as most wars—greed.
Of course I cried then. But in the school gym, I was relieved that Callie would get the vaccine. Tyler had already gotten his a few days before, so it was just the two of us, waiting. There were rumors that they might run out, so we arrived there at five a.m. Callie couldn’t understand why we were going to so much trouble for a flu shot. When she made the head of the line, hours later, and that needle gun was pressed to her arm, I had to turn my head to hide my face. My intense relief would have alerted her that this was not about the flu.
Back in the bedroom, I try to pull Callie’s shirt back over her shoulder, to cover her vaccination scar. But she stops me.
“It’s still red,” she says.
“They did that on purpose. To prove you’re protected,” I say.
“I hate it,” she says, frowning at the mark. “It’s ugly.” She rubs it.
I stop her and take her hand. “No, honey. It could save your life someday.”
“From the spores?”
“People will know you’re not infected, not a danger to them.”
She processes that. And then a worried look comes over her face. “But you didn’t get the vaccine. Or Daddy.”
“We didn’t need it. The government’s just worried about the frail—the very young and the very old. Daddy and I are strong and healthy. We’ll be fine.”
I think back on the day we learned about the vaccination shortage. Ray’s connections could have gotten us the shot. I tried to convince him. Tried to get him to see. What good will it be for our kids to live if we’re gone? I asked him. Where will they go? Our parents aren’t alive. I begged him. The holo-stars, politicians, and other bigwigs were able to get the vaccine. Everyone knew about the black market. But he was adamant. He wasn’t going to push in line, wasn’t going to take a vaccine away from a senior or a child.
Great. So we’re left with our morals. But what else?
• • •
The Spore, later
It’s hot. Steamy.
The spore is waiting for his neighbor to explain their purpose when suddenly, more spores are sent in. He drifts backward.
Wait. Tell me the answer.
But it’s too late; he is rolling and bouncing over grumpy, silent spores.
The spore feels like he is suffocating.
This seems wrong! he shouts. What kind of life is this?
Look out! someone says. And more come pouring in. They land on the spore and then bounce up and away to land on someone else.
The spore tries to scream.
Nothing comes out.
His new neighbor tells him not to try.
What do you know?
I know we have a purpose.
A purpose? Good. That’s good. Do you know what it is?
No. I just know we have one.
What are you called? What am I called?
We’re called infectious bacterial spores.
Spores… I have a name. Spore.
• • •
Barbara Woodland, in the car, 10:0
0 a.m.
I grip the steering wheel as I back out of the driveway, using the rearview camera. Callie’s cherry-scented body oil fills the car. Our car beeps, signaling a pedestrian is near
Callie turns to look. “It’s Michael.”
“From down the street?”
She nods. He stands on the sidewalk and waits for me to back out. Good-looking boy. I see how he smiles at Callie. She doesn’t flirt back, just a simple wave. She’s a good kid, smarter than her years, and resilient.
Would she be able to handle taking care of Tyler? All those questions, day by day, hour by hour, when you’re raising a child. Is this food safe for him? Is that man he’s talking to harmless? Is he sick again? The scenarios Ray talked about, and some I’ve read about, are dismal. Kids shut out of their homes, their houses contaminated with spore residue… living on the streets or in homes of strangers. Would Callie know how to find safe shelter? Food? Water?
Life is predicted to be very different if these Spore Wars come to pass. The buzz isn’t in the news but underground, via flyers and secret Pages on the computer. Some people say the doomsayers are just nuts, proclaiming the end of the world. But it’s never looked more like the end was this close.
I want to tell Callie. I want to discuss it with her what might happen, what action she might take. But it’s impossible to predict. We could hide cash, but the banks have limited how much you can withdraw. If only we had relatives, someone old enough to have gotten the vaccine, she could live with them. Just our luck that both Ray and I have lost our parents.
“Mom? You passed the post office.”
She’s right. I have to drive another block to find a parking spot. When we reach the office, the line is out the door.
“Why is it so crowded?” Callie asks.
People are picking up their mail today because they’re probably planning on staying indoors after this. I long for the day, before the war escalated, when packages were delivered once a week. All our bills are electronic now, not like when I was a kid, but back then no one had figured out how to materialize a pair of shoes that way. Not yet.
“Never mind,” I say. “We’ll come back when it’s not so busy.”
But I know we’ll probably be holed up inside our home like the rest of them. Like prisoners. Or timid rabbits, our red noses twitching. For how long? A week? A month?