by RS McCoy
In reality, the meetings with labs, the bimonthly updates were by far the most interesting aspect of his position, aside from Abigail, of course. In every field imaginable, Scholars worked tirelessly to bring him the newest and greatest discoveries, the innovations that would eventually save their species.
Had it not been for Dr. Parr’s death, he would have liked to visit Planetary Systems, one of his favorites. Now he would have to wait another two months.
“Don’t pout.” Abigail was as vigilant as she was beautiful. Michael was entirely sure he couldn’t do this job without her.
“When you’re finished approving supply orders, there’s a few permit requests from the labs. Might even get ahead a bit.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder.
He only sighed. His body ached from lack of sleep, his muscles clenched with tension and stress. Michael could feel himself wearing down. His predecessor had only lasted three years. Maybe that was the natural span of this position. Maybe he needed to start thinking about stepping down.
Abigail’s firm hands were on his shoulders a moment later, gently pressing to massage the locked-up muscles across the top of his back. She worked strategically, starting at his spine and moving out, slowly releasing the stress held there.
And then, without warning, her arms wrapped around his neck. Her body pressed against his back. “There’s nothing you could have done. People just die sometimes.” A soft kiss landed at the top of his ear. “You’re a great director,” she whispered.
Michael patted her crossed arms below his chin before kissing them in return. He immediately felt better, if only a little.
He had to give it to her. The girl was good.
“Come on. I’ll take you for a walk. Should be Earth-side for another hour.” She hopped off the bed and tugged his hand, pulling him to his feet and toward the circular door.
Michael threw back the last of his coffee and followed her into the corridor. He was never one to pass up a glance at the majestic planet.
While the moon didn’t rotate, the LRF at its center did. It was a few degrees off the Earth’s rotation to allow researchers access to worldwide facilities. At least twice a day, the Earth was visible through a series of concave viewing ports.
Michael loved the reminder of their purpose. A few minute walk in hand with Abigail brought them to the view port closest to Earth. A vast sphere, white on the poles, sienna brown with peachy haze. It shone from the dark expanse of space, a beacon of life in the void. Each continent stood outlined by the mile of exposed shelf. The pale brown waters looked crisp and still at such a distance.
“You know, I read they used to call the ocean the Blue Lung. Have you heard that before?” Abigail asked. Both their eyes were locked on their homeworld.
“No, did it say why it was called a lung?”
“I guess back before the war, the oceans had plankton that grew in massive numbers. They produced more than half the oxygen for the planet back then. Crazy, right?”
Michael had heard of plankton—he had studied astrobiology after all—but no one had seen a plankton in two hundred years.
“They’ve had the atmosphere converters running for centuries. I guess I didn’t realize they were related to the ocean toxicity. It makes sense.” So long had the Earth been poisoned, no one cared how it got that way anymore. That’s just the way it was.
“You know, from here, you can’t really tell the war ever happened. You can see the water and the continents, the city lights, but that’s it. No starvation, no abandoned countries, no radioactive contamination. If it weren’t for the haze, it would be perfect. Peaceful.”
“And it will be again someday,” he reminded her.
“Such an idealist,” she smiled and squeezed his hand.
Scholars differed widely in their views of how to proceed with a damaged Earth and the ten billion people upon it.
Michael knew Abigail didn’t share his vision of off-loading huge portions of the population onto off-world colonies—a major reason he approved the first ever Mars colony in total isolation three years before. With reduced numbers, they could give the Earth a few generations to heal, to cleanse itself of the strife and pollution, to reform polar ice caps and purify oceans.
“It’s a beautiful planet, one of a kind. It’s our home.” He knew it would probably start their usual argument.
“We’ll have a new home someday,” she replied as he knew she would. Her hand squeezed his arm.
“We’ll renew this discussion when they find it. Until then, Earth is our home.”
“LRF is our home,” she corrected.
“I can agree to that.” Michael conceded to the beautiful woman at his side day and night, but in his heart, he would never give up on Earth.
THEO
VOIGHT RESIDENCE, LANCASTER, NORTH AMERICA
AUGUST 7, 2232
“Hey, Mrs. Voight. Nate here?” Theo asked from the front step of a metallic modular home utterly identical to his—save for the number above the door.
“Good morning, Theodore. He’s upstairs with Casey. I’ll let him know you arrived.”
“Oh, that’s all right. I should have commed him. I didn’t realize Casey was here—” Theo’s wristlet vibrated and flashed with the message: COME UP.
Theo smiled. Of course Nate had expected him. No one knew him better.
Nate’s mom, a prim, quiet blonde, only nodded and closed the door behind him as he loped up the steel steps to his best-friend’s bedroom. When he arrived, he found a scene that had been carried out so many times in the two years since they had become friends: Nate lying in bed with his head on Casey’s chest, listening to music from a shared pair of corded earbuds.
“Hey guys. You know I can make you a wireless set? Like, not from last century,” he barbed, fully knowing their answer.
“We like these,” they said in unison. Both Nate and his long-time boyfriend Casey sported some serious beards—some of the fullest Theo had ever seen—in addition to long hair and pierced ears. While Casey was all set for his future as Artisan, Nate would have an abrupt change when he was forced to cut his hair and give up his look in favor of the life of a devoted mathematician.
From what Theo heard from others, Nate was a natural, one of the best they’d seen in a decade. He would have a long and prominent career once he got over the loss of his nose ring.
“You ready for today?” Casey asked as he slipped the earbud into his hand and pushed to sitting. Nate’s head nestled in his lap.
“Yeah, I think so. I mean, we’ve been waiting our whole lives for this.” Theo tried to sound confident.
Nate reached his ringed fingers into Casey’s hand to fetch the earbud, completing the pair and closing his eyes, lost in the music.
“He’s pretty upset,” Casey said, his eyes locked on the boyfriend he would lose at noon today. Theo’s heart hurt to think it would be the last time they could ever be together. Intraclass relationships were strictly forbidden.
“I know. He won’t even talk about Selection. Mitchell said he was skipping classes.” Theo was hardly one to judge. He’d been avoiding some of his as well.
Casey nodded. It was hardly news to him. “I told him to go, but he wants to go to my studio. He likes—”
Theo knew Nate loved to watch Casey paint, how many times had he said it. Theo was almost tired of hearing about it, but then again, Theo had never known anyone to love someone the way Nate loved Casey.
At first, Theo had been jealous. Nate was his friend, his one good friend, and Casey had all but monopolized his time. For a while, Theo had been opposed. Scholars weren’t supposed to dabble in such things.
But Nate had been so sure. And they were still Youths, they could experiment with the rules of each class, to better find the one they suited best.
It hadn’t taken long for Casey to become one of them, to become integrated into their friendship. Now it was the three of them. And soon, it would be back to two.
“How’s the
painting going, by the way?”
“It’s great. Really great. After Selection, the Dean puts on a gallery show for each of us. I get to showcase my portfolio and see if there’s any interest from a mentor. A few have already approached me, but nothing official until after.”
“That’s great,” Theo admitted. He wondered if any Scholars had been approached by future mentors.
“Thanks,” Casey answered quietly. His fingers ran through strands of Nate’s blonde hair in his lap.
“Don’t want to go Scholar?” Theo asked with a half-hearted smile. Casey was about as Artisan as they get. He would never survive anywhere else.
But Casey only laughed a little. “Uh, no. I’m good. I don’t want to end up—”
Untouchable.
Neither said it, but everyone knew what happened to those who failed to uphold their place within society.
“What about you? Music, guitar. You could really do something amazing if you took more than a class or two.”
Theo didn’t want to think about the instrument he would likely never hold again. Music crawled inside him and lived in his bones. His parents would never understand why he spent so many hours in his room perfecting songs. According to his teacher, he was actually quite good, but it didn’t matter. He was a Kaufman.
He would never play again.
“Nah, I’m not good enough, not like you.” It was only a half-truth, but it was enough to satisfy him.
The room was quiet for a moment, Nate absorbed in his music, Casey lost in thought, until at last he said, “I tried to get him to go Artisan. I knew he wouldn’t. I hated to ask him, to give up his whole career just for me. But I did. I asked him—” His eyes clouded with guilt.
“But he said no,” Theo finished for him.
Casey nodded, helpless against the tear that rolled down his cheek and into his dark beard.
Theo felt like a monster. While he’d been grieving the loss of his guitar, Nate and Casey were dealing with the very real end of their relationship. How either would get on over the next few months he had no idea.
Nate pulled the earbuds from his ears when he noticed Casey’s expression, the pain that consumed his features. “I’m sorry, babe. I’m so, so sorry—” he started, but they all knew there was nothing to say. Nothing could change it.
“Go Artisan. Please, you can’t—” Casey begged.
“I have to. I have to.” Nate just kept saying it, over and over. It was true. He was a Scholar, he had amazing talent for solving logistical equations, but that didn’t soften the loss.
“I’ll go Scholar. I’ll do science. I’ll write formulas. I’ll do whatever you want.”
Theo’s heart shattered to watch them, desperate, grappling for some way to be together.
But all three knew it.
Letting Casey go Scholar would be a fatal error. He would fail, sink from society, destined for the life of an Untouchable. Nate shook his head.
Casey cried in earnest then, his hands each clutching one of Nate’s cheeks. He pulled him close and kissed him hard before pushing away with desperate speed. “I—I need to go get ready,” Casey said to the floor as he wiped his face with the back of his hand and slammed the bedroom door behind him as he left.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” Theo said as he suddenly felt like he’d ruined their last minutes together.
Nate was on his feet a moment later, pacing the small room before cocking back and throwing a punch at the metal panel beside the door. The sharp sound filled the room, and when he removed his fist, a sizeable dent remained. Theo could only watch, both shocked and impressed.
“I really loved him,” Nate explained, his lip quivering so hard it altered his speech. “I really—” and then he finally broke. His voice was shredded with despair.
Theo put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I know you did. He knows it. He’s just upset.”
Nate inhaled several angry breaths before he said, “Yeah, I need to get ready. I’ll see you there.”
When Nate checked his wristlet, it was already 1030. “Yeah, see you there.”
The next time Theo saw his friend, they would both be Scholars. Neither of them would ever see Casey again.
DASIA
DAUGHERTY PROPERTY, MONARCH, NORTH AMERICA
AUGUST 7, 2232
Everything’s fine. The sweet whisper of anth saturated her mind, but it couldn’t part the orange sea that swallowed them whole. They moved through the thick fog toward his house, or at least she hoped. It was impossible to see anything.
Cole’s arm hung loose over her shoulder as he struggled to keep step through the coughing.
“Come on. It can’t be much farther,” she told him, urging him on.
You’re almost there.
But he only made it a few more feet before he collapsed to his knees. His muscular frame sank like a rock in a stream.
Dasia could only slow his fall.
“Cole, baby, get up.” She tugged at his arm in a useless attempt to pull his face from the soil. “Get up!”
It was then she noticed his cough had quieted.
On her knees, Dasia pushed him onto his back, his beautiful features too blue under the orange dust, his chest too still.
“Help!” she screamed with no idea how near or far the house might be, if anyone could hear her pleas or if they would be swallowed by the haze.
“Someone help us!” she shouted into the waste, her desperate fingers on his cheeks, begging him to breathe, to live, but already his flesh had begun to cool.
They’ll come, anth whispered.
But no one did.
Not for a long time.
When at last the scuff of boots sounded in the soil around them, Dasia lay prostrate atop Cole’s chest, her arms wrapped tight around his lifeless body.
Frenzied, muffled shouts emerged from behind a respirator. Strong hands gripped her shoulders and pulled her up, but she wouldn’t release him, wouldn’t let go.
“Dasia! God, Dasia—” More hands joined in until she could no longer feel his body pressed to hers.
“No! Leave me alone!” she shouted, refusing to lessen her grip.
A woman’s wild shrieks filled the space between corn rows. Someone collapsed to the ground as Dasia was pulled further back.
“What happened?” Firm hands shook her shoulders as if to coax life into him by shaking it from her. But Dasia had nothing to say. Nothing could fix it. She let Cole die.
Someone pulled a respirator over her face.
Through the clear plastic covering, the world was new. The permeating fog of the haze was replaced with a thin, wisping smoke, pale orange and fading. Light filled the field. It was morning, at least mid-morning.
Strangers stood beside her. No, not strangers. She knew them.
Dasia recognized Cole’s parents, Linda’s face covered with the black mask that matched her own, though it couldn’t hide the choked-back tears.
Dasia wondered why she was crying. She had never seen Linda cry.
Jared lifted the collar of his work shirt over his nose and mouth as he said, “Get her inside.” His tone was more ragged than usual. One rough farm hand reached into his back pocket and pulled out the family’s comm device.
Cole’s mom, a middle-aged woman with a farmer’s determination, pulled Dasia away from the scene. She could hear Jared call for help. “Stevens, it’s Daugherty. Could you—I need you to come over. It’s Cole, he—”
Dasia didn’t know if Jared’s voice had given out or if Linda had pulled her out of range as they moved toward the house. But she remembered what happened as if it had fallen out of the sky and flattened her. She remembered that Cole was dead.
The vertical fans in the doorway blew off the powder that clung to her clothes and skin. Linda removed both their respirators and sat at the kitchen table, an ancient thing worn smooth over the last five generations, by Cole himself.
She ran her hands across it as if through that contact, she could
have some of him back.
Linda’s contemporary farm kitchen was still, the two women frozen, but Dasia felt it as a tornado. The anth was wearing off, the peace slipping from her clutches. She gripped the table as if she might fly away from it.
“What the hell happened?” Linda seethed. Her jaw was tight and her eyes were narrow.
Alone with Cole’s mother, faced with the prospect of explaining it, Dasia trembled.
She could only stare, bracing against the impact.
“Tell me what happened to my son!” Linda shouted before standing so fast the chair flew to the floor. Her hard fingers wrapped around Dasia’s shoulders and shook her, but she didn’t have anything to say. There was nothing she could say.
At last, Linda retreated to stand in front of the sink, her back to Dasia.
A minute or an hour later, Jared loped up the steps and addressed his wife as if Dasia wasn’t there, as if her whole life hadn’t just been destroyed in one stupid, senseless moment. “There’s someone coming to talk to her. We’re supposed to keep her here.”
“Don’t you think—we can’t just leave him alone—” Linda said before she gave in to her sobs.
Turning to face her, Jared said, “I called your parents but they didn’t answer. Is there anyone else we can call?”
Dasia shook her head as the first of many tears streamed down her cheeks. There was only one person she wanted to call, one person she wanted to talk to, to tell what happened. Only one person who would understand.
But she had just watched him die.
Neither one approached her for a long time, content to let her cry in the dining room, waiting for someone to come get her, to take her away.
As the anth faded, Dasia saw the Daughertys as they were: tear-streaked, broken. Jared leaned against the kitchen counter and looked as if he couldn’t hold his own weight much longer. Linda sat at the far end of the table, her hands shaking where they covered her mouth. A good strong wind could have knocked her out of her chair.