The Breeding Tree

by J. Andersen

  Appeasing her, I open my compact and click on the food icon to record breakfast. Food isn’t rationed here like it is in some parts of the country. They make us record our food to make sure no one has too much or too little. Because if someone ate more than what their body could handle, it would alter the average look and weight of the people here. And The Institute doesn’t want people to stand out if they have any control over it.

  We can pretty much eat what we want as long as we record it, and they allow us each our favorite treat once a day. For my dad, it’s the jelly doughnut he’s biting into now that he’s finished his toast. The jelly squirts out the other side and lands on his plate where he wipes it up with his finger and licks off the sticky stuff from his skin. He uses his teeth to squeegee the red jam off his finger. He’s always done this. Meanwhile, my mom makes a face.

  “Do you have to do that?”

  “What?”

  “That,” she points to his fingers, “with the jelly.”

  “Of course, my dear. How else would I get the jelly out from under my fingernails?” He flashes me a wink, knowing it’ll make his wife roll her eyes, which she does as I laugh.

  To her, it’s disgusting to stick your fingers in your mouth, and she never allows me to do it, but curbing my dad of the habit is another story.

  “Be careful,” he says to me. His daily mantra, which I know really means, watch your back.

  “I’m probably heading to the library after my sessions,” I add, scraping the bottom of my bowl and shoving the last spoonful of oatmeal into my mouth. “I have to study for my lab tomorrow.” I address my mother, who is stacking the dishes neatly in piles while she fills the sink with hot, soapy water. “Don’t count on me for dinner. I’ll grab something at the café.”

  Before she can protest and go on about how the food at the café isn’t healthy, I pick up my compact, slide it into my bag, and head out the door. “Don’t worry, I’ll record it.” As I step out the door, I hear a quiet chuckle escape my dad’s lips.

  ***

  Sessions for today don’t include lab work. That’s every other day, so after another thrilling lecture by Professor Limbert, Taryn and I head to the library with a quick stop at the café along the way for my indulgence of choice: a pumpkin scone and coffee with cream. I’ve consumed them both by the time we reach the front steps of the library, except for a final swig of my coffee, which I swallow before tossing the cup in the garbage can on the sidewalk.

  The library is an old building, built with ornate stonework masonry and rustic brick. It looms out from the street front with its giant pillars, and lampposts light the long stairway leading to the building’s massive doors. This building is obsolete in this day. We have all the information we need or want at the touch of our fingertips, so the structure is used more as a gathering center or museum than a place of learning or research. One giant piece of nostalgia in our ever-evolving, technological world.

  Taryn and I skip up the steps and tug the door open. Just past the marble-tiled floor in the entryway, a group of our classmates lounge on couches in the sitting area.

  It’s Chase and Devin with a few younger-looking girls I don’t recognize. Normally, I wouldn’t mind hanging out, but Devin has been a little extra friendly lately, and I’m not interested. I’d rather not give him any ideas if I can help it.

  “Wanna join them?” Taryn asks, adjusting her study bag on her shoulder.

  “Nah. You go ahead. I’ve got some work I need to finish.”

  She shakes her head at me and tugs at my shirt. “Study later. You’ve still got time before the lab tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, but I’d rather get it done now. No need to procrastinate.”

  She shoots me a look. “You love to procrastinate. Remember what I’ve always said? ‘Kate, Kate, procrastinate. Turn it in a little late.’” Taryn’s eyes light up as she recalls our little chant from childhood.

  “Yeah, well, I’m trying to change my ways. You know, the life of a Creation Specialist and all.”

  “You’re not a Creation Specialist yet.” She smiles. “Go ahead, then. I’ll catch up with you later.” Taryn heads toward the group, swings her bag off her shoulder and sets it to the side of an overstuffed chair. I glance over my shoulder as I round the corner to the research room and catch the look of disappointment on Devin’s face. It fades quickly when Taryn flops down in between the two boys and flashes them each a brilliant smile. She has the ability to turn anyone’s head. Heck, I wouldn’t be surprised if she could convince them to do whatever she wanted with merely a grin and a wink.

  I prefer to be alone when I work. It helps me concentrate. There’s a couch in the far corner of the research room nestled between a few bookshelves. My fingers brush the wooden spines of the book inserts as I pass by. The shelves almost reach the ceiling and were once filled with titles. Now, each holds either a canvas with painted book spines or wooden blocks carved to look and feel like books on a shelf. But it’s all a façade. What use is there for books when any information is given to us through the city’s database system? Even the stories read to young children or those used for entertainment purposes are found in our database. This library is merely for show. A place to gather. Like they didn’t know what to do with the building when they started eliminating the literature, so they kept it to keep a few things normal when so much else was changing.

  My corner is tucked between two rows of shelves covered in the wood carvings. I prefer these to the canvas paintings for the mere fact that I can run my fingers along the edges and wonder what mysteries these books held. The titles written on the spines don’t match those in the database of literature. Years ago, when our community was just forming, certain books were deemed unworthy of storage and eliminated from society altogether. 1984, by George Orwell. Hamlet, by William Shakespeare. The Crucible, by Arthur Miller. Stories long gone except for a title and author. Nothing left but a name on a piece of wood. I wonder if Gran ever read these books. It’s something I never thought to inquire, but I now make a mental note to ask. What was so horrible about these stories that they ended up as rubbish?

  It makes me wonder what my grandchildren will decide to destroy of my earth. Of my life.

  I settle myself onto a worn cushion and take out my compact, pressing the button to bring it to life.

  I love it here because I’m alone. After all the time I spend in the lab with my classmates, I seek any opportunity I can afford to find solitude, even if it means walking at dusk through a creepy park or hiding in the corner of an ancient building with only the dust and ghosts of writers past as company.

  Glancing over the screen, I take a moment to read through the announcements that pop up. A write-up about the recent Womber death. I glance through it and slide it into a folder of announcements to read. Then I click to my own notes of that first lab observation. The pictures I’ve drawn are primitive, but my notes are thorough, and soon, I have lists of terms stored into the memory chip implanted in my neck. You’d think if a society was going to implant enhancement chips at birth, they’d at least make it easier to absorb information. Who cares that it’s programmed to shut our brains down when we’re one hundred and twenty? I’d like a few more benefits now, please. It’d be nice to click a button and send the terms and studies to long-term memory, but our chips are still being developed. We can retain much more information at a faster rate, but we still have to put forth some effort. At least we get healthy bodies from it.

  I’m not sure how much time has passed when I hear a noise around the corner. No one comes back here on purpose, so I know it must be Taryn looking for me. “Over here, T.”

  There’s no answer. Odd. I thought for sure I heard something. I ignore the thought until I hear a soft scraping a few feet away. “T, I’m in my spot.” When she doesn’t respond, goose bumps stand up on my skin.

  Maybe she can’t remember where I am, so I
get up and walk halfway down the aisle. To my left, I see a space between the façade of book spines. It’s small, but I’m sure there weren’t any empty spaces here. In other parts of the library, on other shelves, yes, but not here. Here they pack the shelves solid to simulate an old-fashioned library. It’s all for the ambiance. I’ve passed this place so many times I know each crack and crevice. This one didn’t exist thirty minutes ago. I peer through the crack, but all I see is another shelf of fake books about four feet away.

  The flash of movement crosses my line of sight causing a prickly heat to spark on my skin. My gaze sharpens, watching for the slightest change. Leaning a bit closer, I slide the wooden book ends over, pressing my forehead against the shelf so I can see.

  What I see causes me to jump. “Ow!” I jump back and whack my head on the jagged metal shelf. I rub the spot. There’s no blood, but a bump is already forming. I turn around, and my back presses against a cold, metal divider and I slide to the floor, staying there until my racing heart slows to normal.

  When I can breathe normally again, I press my hands on the floor and work my way back to a standing position. The space is right next to my head, so all I have to do is turn around and look, yet I stand there frozen, building my courage.

  Finally, when I can’t handle it any longer, I tuck the waves of hair behind my ears and turn to peer through the space.

  Gray eyes look back at me then disappear.

  “What the h—!” Lunging to the end of the stacks, I round the corner, expecting to see a body attached to those eyes. But the aisle is empty.

  This is creepy. I must be going insane. I know what I saw, and I know whose eyes they were. There is only one person who possesses the gray-blue eyes that studied me through the books.

  I find the space between the books again. Only this time, it’s not empty. Sitting on the shelf is a tiny piece of paper. Real paper. On closer inspection, it’s not just any paper. It’s a page from a book, and it’s folded into the shape of a fish.

  Turning it over in my fingers is strange. The feel of the paper. Its smell. The yellowing color. I’ve never seen anything like it. I know I can’t show it to anyone. Something like this would be forbidden, so I gently tuck it in my back pocket until I can put it someplace safe.

  Still, I don’t know why anyone would take a risk like this. What if I hadn’t found the gift, if that’s what it is? And the idea that someone is watching me totally freaks me out.

  ***

  I pack up my stuff and head toward the common area where Taryn is turning on her charm. She’s snuggled between the two boys with a grin the size of Sector 4. When she sees me, the smile disappears and a glint of concern replaces it. She can tell I’m upset.

  Pushing off the boys’ legs, she crosses to me. “You okay? What happened?”

  “Nothing. I’m fine. I just thought I’d join you here.” It’s a total lie, but I don’t care. It’s not like I’m scared. I’m not. Definitely not. I know who it was, and I’m mostly sure he’s harmless, especially since he left me a gift. At least, I think it was a gift and not an omen.

  We return to the group where Taryn pushes Devin aside, making room for me. I don’t care for Devin. I especially don’t like his loose hands, but I’m so dazed that being anywhere near people is good. Devin’s arm quickly slides off the back of the sofa and stops centimeters from my shoulder. But that’s not what causes the hairs on my neck to stand out again. It’s what I see when I look toward the door.

  A group of people clog the exit in an attempt to leave at the same time. But on the far side is a taller boy with a mess of jet black curls tucked underneath a baseball cap. He doesn’t look toward me, but inside I know even though I can’t see them, beneath a line of dark lashes are eyes of gray.

  “Kate?”

  “Huh?” I look at Taryn. She doesn’t finish her question, but the look on her face asks if I’m okay again. I manage a weak smile and a nod as I look back toward the entrance. The congestion has dissipated, and the boy is gone.

  I know who was staring at me through the bookshelves. I just don’t know why.

  SEVEN

  GIVING BIRTH

  BIRTHING CLASS BEGINS THIS week. As soon as we get to class on Monday, Micah takes us to the observation deck. It overlooks the birthing area where a group of third-year residents are awaiting the doctor assigned to the case. They’ve already scrubbed in and are becoming visibly impatient.

  I sit down at the end of the bleacher with Taryn on one side of me and Micah standing at the edge, so close I can smell his cologne. He looks especially nice today in a fitted black T-shirt beneath his open lab coat, and I have to look away when he catches me staring. I wonder if he knows I found his gift in the library. I won’t tell him. Not now. There has to be a reason he didn’t stop to talk. I’ll see what I can find out first and in the meantime, I convince myself it’s okay to appreciate his physique.

  “Be sure to remain silent. This is the first time these residents are assisting a birth, so your distractions are not welcome. You’ll notice the process is fairly easy and doesn’t take long because there’s no need for lengthy human labors,” Micah says. He steps in front of the group to give instructions and then moves back to his spot by me and leans against the wall. As he passes, he brushes my leg.

  “Sorry,” he whispers, holding my gaze.

  I barely hear him over the tingles that flow through my body where he touched me.

  “Why do they need—” a guy from the back row asks, but Micah cuts him off.

  “For now, if you have any questions, write them down in your compacts. After the birth, we’ll have a debriefing session. You can ask me anything at that point.”

  I turn my attention to the room below me as Dr. Donovan, our other professor, enters dressed in scrubs. He ignores the group of us gathered in the spectator section and addresses the three residents ready to help with the birth. “Good afternoon, students. Shall we begin?” They nod silently and take their places around the table.

  A fourth resident wheels in a cart with the fetus still in the capsule. She’s fighting with the wires still attached to the tube as she rolls the cart closer to the work area. Donovan reaches over, untangles the tubing, and helps her slide the birthing capsule onto the table.

  “As you know, the child in front of us has been created from DNA reserved from each parent. Nine months ago, they applied for their own child to be created. This is the culmination of that process. The first step is to open the capsule.” He turns to the girl who wheeled in the baby. “Go ahead.”

  She reaches over and releases the clasp, lifting the top of the canister off its base. Donovan continues as she works. “It’s important not to disconnect the tubing until after the fetus is born. Doing so too soon can result in oxygen deprivation, which may cause birth defects. If this happens, an emergency disposal will be necessary, and we’d like to avoid that when possible.” Donovan’s words are practiced, like he’s said this a million times. “Johnson,” he continues, “please ready the suction and cleaning cloths. Ms. Moinihan, are you ready?”

  The shortest of the group nods her head.

  “All you need to do is reach in and remove the fetus from the surrounding liquid. Pass her to Mr. Johnson, who will begin cleaning the child.”

  As Ms. Moinihan steps toward the capsule, I lean closer to the edge of the viewing area. This is it. The moment of birth. It’s fascinating and wonderful and makes my heart pump faster.

  The med student reaches her hands into the gelatinous liquid and grabs the child behind the neck with one hand and under the leg with the other, lifting the baby out. She hands the baby to Johnson, who’s waiting with outstretched arms covered in blankets. As soon as the infant touches his hands, Johnson rubs the baby’s body and suctions out her nose and mouth. She screams and shivers at the touch of the cool air on her skin. It’s a beautiful sound, and hearing it relaxes me enough to sit back into my seat. The
fourth student clips the umbilical cord, detaches the tubing and wires from the container, and scrapes the residue from the sides of the pod. He removes the placenta from the base of the container and places it into a bag, labeling it with the date and time. It will be saved for further research.

  The area below is busy with movement. Cleaning up this and that, weighing, measuring and swaddling the baby. Turning off pumps and reorganizing the tools. Seeing the process hasn’t been quite as exciting as I anticipated. Open the capsule; take out the baby. Big deal. Nothing like the stories of my great-gran’s day when there was rushing to the hospital, hoping to arrive on time. Battling weather and physical complications. It must have been so much more thrilling then.

  But our scientific evolution is better. Easier. Safer.

  Once everything calms down, the group below me meets near the birthing table again. Professor Donovan hands a syringe to the resident who rolled the child into the room. “Ms. Lindquist, you’ll implant the MIH after Mr. Kater applies the tattoo. Then, since this fetus is female, Mr. Johnson will be responsible for removing the eggs.”

  Now it’s getting interesting. I’ll bet they never tattooed a newborn in Gran’s day. The rest of my classmates must agree because we all lean forward together like we’re one large, connected organism. Even Micah, who’s probably seen this procedure a hundred times, leans over the edge of the viewing area to get a better look. For a moment, he’s wide-eyed with wonder. He glances back at the group to make sure he’s not in anyone’s way and catches my eye. Tossing his eyebrows up in a quick acknowledgment, he smiles and scratches his stubble before turning his attention back toward the group below. I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear and glance at the floor before turning my attention to what’s going on below.

  Ms. Moinihan holds the swaddled baby on her stomach, exposing the child’s neck. Meanwhile, Mr. Kater programs the laser device which will imprint the tattoo on the baby’s skin. It looks like a scanner cashiers use at the café. “Citizen number 1285692,” he says as he presses the numbers into the device. Mr. Johnson repeats the numbers and punches the information into The Institute’s database through his compact.