by V. K. Ludwig
But a teenager on the council?
Brilliant minds lined up at every corner of the Districts, eradicating viruses or developing solar-powered transportation tubes. Even a genius barely stood out. I allowed myself a closer look.
Blue veins ran across her almost translucent skin, most prominently around her forehead, like the old Mississippi river system before it dried out. Even without the zits — which made my fingers tingle — the unstained purity in her eyes betrayed her young age right away. Not even her mink-dyed hair compensated for her lack of experience.
“Hey, Max.” She threw her hand up in a quick wave, pulling me out of my thoughts. Perhaps for the better. No matter if I liked it or not, today I had to be the bearer of bad news.
I gestured the two councilwomen toward the chairs in the first row, which gave a dusty cough underneath the unexpected strain. Gum had petrified in the flat woven carpet, along with all the other novelties twenty-first-century college life had to offer back then. The council had decided to keep the enormous ancient blackboard behind me as well — for authenticity-sake, or so they said.
I rubbed my hands and waved the projector from its sleep, which powered up and threw the red skyscrapers once more into the room. Deprived of any and all windows, the air hung stale, dry and boring, like the lectures on overpopulation professors gave here a long time ago. It sucked the moisture right out of my skin.
Councilwoman Kenya gave me a nod and dragged her nails across the grain of her armrest. “Today, Max, if at all possible.”
I stood at attention and shuffled closer to the projector. “Uh, I don’t know how to make this any less shocking, so I will just say it as it is…”
My words trailed off, leaving behind awkward silence.
There was no turning back now. Numbers never lie.
I’d go down in history as the scientist who discovered the threat. That’s a far stretch from being the one who cured cancer — if I’d ever make that title.
“What you see here,” I said pointing at the chart with shaky hands, “are the increasing numbers of samples we had to discard prematurely because the sperm immobilized or simply died off. All these samples were sourced from men living in the Districts over the last twelve months.”
Kenya gave a dismissive wave, her eyes already darting back to the door she had just entered. “Oh Max, we always had generations that performed less effective than others. Please tell me there is something else. Or did I drag my bad hip over those darned flagstones for nothing?”
The impatience in her voice made me want to shrink back, but my feet refused. She was fidgety. Rammed her nails deep into the cushion, shoving in her seat like a canister under pressure. I had to make her understand the importance.
“I blamed environmental issues.” I waved at the projector, wiggled my wrist and cut my finger through the thick air. Three-dimensional numbers beamed into the room from left to right, except for the big shocker. I kept that one for the end, just as you do with your most persuasive argument in a one-on-one debate. Can’t wake people without shaking them, right?
“Three years ago, seven men came of age who met the requirements to donate to our databank.” I gazed into their faces, indifference written on them as if cast in stone. That would change in less than ten seconds. “One of those men was diagnosed as infertile. If you look at this year’s numbers, you can see that thirteen men met the requirements for the databank, but…”
I stopped right then and there.
Building that tension.
Preparing the big punch.
I cleared my throat, putting the acid-tasting truth on the tip of my tongue: Our men are going infertile.
Permanently. The inability to survive as a species coded into their DNA.
I parted my lips, the fact gnawing on them like bloody little parasites. “The things is —”
Kenya swung up a silencing hand. “Damnit Max, eleven were infertile.”
My heart knocked against my sternum. They knew! The chair rows in front of me faded away, replaced by specks of light and smudges.
“You’ve been aware then?” I asked, more out of politeness than lack of clarity.
“Of course we did.” Kenya pushed herself up from her seat, leaving a narrow sweat stain behind on the backrest. She paced along the row, hands clasped behind her back. “We discovered this hereditary mutation almost twenty years ago. The population is unaware, and we intend to keep it like that. Do you understand?”
Her pacing stalled and she shot me an earnest glance.
“I understand.”
Cold and unrelenting, her stare remained with me until I emphasized my answer with a nod. Then she continued with her pacing.
“It was not your job to compare historical data, but now that you know I might as well share the details with you.”
Svea folded her hands onto her lap and sat up straighter. “It’s the water.”
“Yes,” I said, “I figured that one out as well. Over time, the current formula triggers permanent changes. But if you discovered this issue twenty years ago, how come we are still using the same formula for our enhanced water?”
Kenya’s posture slumped, her gaze drifting off into a distant corner of the room. “Do you know how many women died when the governments first introduced the formula into their public water sources?”
“They estimated seventy-three percent of the world population,” I stated brief and to the point. Our schools made sure to mention it once in each grade.
“All because of one tiny deviation in the formula,” she said, her voice gliding into a trembling whisper. “And because it was not trialed properly. Or that is what the data suggests. Granted, everything went into chaos after that, and documentation has been scarce since. We cannot let the past repeat itself, Max.”
My head spun like a merry-go-round, making me sick to my stomach as if I’ve been on it for fifteen minutes in one direction. I got it. Nobody with a sane mind wanted to fool with the formula.
Except for me.
“That was almost two-hundred years ago,” I said. “We can do better now. As a matter of fact, I already trialed a few alternatives on our rats, and one formula is very —”
“You have done what?” Kenya’s eyes, usually tired and half-lidded, widened into a stare that peeled the skin off her eyeballs.
Svea sunk her head. “How many rats died?”
“None.”
“It does not matter,” Kenya shouted, flinging her hand in our direction. Agitated and out of breath, she pushed the seat at the end of the row down and sat. “Foolish man. Do you think you are the only one who had this idea? Even if the rats survived, there are always other compromises at play. Just look at the clans. Raping women. Killing each other over them. That will not happen here.”
Her anger sucked the warmth out of the room, leaving it behind ten degrees cooler and much less inviting. But I couldn’t give up just yet.
“With all due respect, councilwoman. The Clan of the Woodlands didn’t report a rape in almost a year. And the rats showed no initiative to mate. That shows me there has to be something in-between.”
“Enough!” Kenya shot up, and the seat of her chair snapped back against the backrest in a bounce. She began pacing once more, this time fanning her face with both hands. “I had enough of this nonsense. Rest assured, Max, the council has been working on an alternative solution to this. And we are confident that… that…”
“Kenya!” Svea hurried over, wrapping her stick arms around Kenya’s shoulders, and led her back to the chair. I should have felt sorry for her. But I didn’t. All I felt were those two words of hers, bouncing across my brain. Alternative solution. I moved my lips as if forming the words without actually saying them, but that alone drove a wave of bile up my throat. There was no alternative. It was either a different formula or…
“What’s the alternative?” I asked, my eyes apparently so clenched, I could see the ends of my lashes blurring my vision.
Svea sun
k her head as if to dodge the question like a stray bullet, and Kenya pressed her saggy lips into a thin line.
Their silence made my blood roar. They couldn’t. They wouldn’t. “You’re not trying to tell me that the council considers editing this mutation out of our population’s DNA, right?”
Kenya waved my question off with her flat palm. “I assure you the technology has come quite far ever since.”
“Ever since what?” I asked. “You mean ever since they edited breast cancer out of seven female embryos, and none of those girls made it to the age of nine?”
Svea kneeled down beside Kenya and squeezer her hand. “That was years ago, and like the councilwoman said —”
“Oh, ok. How about a more recent one?” I gave them a dumbfounded look. “Whatever happened to that Guniea pig with the edited hereditary heart disease? Dropped dead within four months? Or was it three?”
Kenya flung her hands up, her eyes rolling skywards. “Everybody knows how sensitive those small animals can be. It might have died of other causes, entirely unassociated with the editing of its genetic code. Might have suffocated on a piece of carrot, for all I care.”
I turned around and stomped away, crushing my anger underneath my shoes at each step. With a wave, I turned the holo-projector off and stared at the empty blackboard.
Dad would say the human genome is holy. That was some religious bullshit of course. But holy or not, taking evolution into our hands felt wrong on so many levels. For each issue you solve, you conjure up two new ones. Sometimes worse than the one you replace.
“I have a solution back at the lab, ready for a trial.” I turned around and held up my hand, fingers pointing straight up. “Five men. Six months. That’s all I need to make sure my calculations are correct, and the formula safe enough for everything to continue as it was before.”
Kenya rose once more, this time supported by Svea, and waddled over in slow and precise steps. She parted her lips and turned them into a growing pout. “No!”
Such as small word from such a frail voice, leaving behind despair and tightness that grabbed my chest in a hard squeeze.
Dad’s quiet and concerned voice sounded through the back of my head, whispering the words every child dreaded — I told you so!
Suppose parents knew better after all.
I couldn’t convince them, because they weren’t even looking for a solution. At least not an ethical one.
For a moment it was as if my sister stood between them and me, almost entirely transparent. Not the Nathalie I had last seen: pale, malnourished, wheezing for even the tiniest gasp of air. The one before that. Before she died. A badass to boot who took nothing from nobody, teasing me because she was older than me. By almost three minutes!
I shook my head as if to rid myself of her scheme. Wasn’t of any help anyway.
“What about the rats? Did they exhibit any behavior that had you concerned?” Svea asked with a cocked head. Her softened features told me her question was a helping hand. But nevertheless, a look in her uncommon, no… almost unnatural eyes made my skin crawl.
“Absolutely not.” I gulped the thick knot down that had formed at the back of my throat. Guess there’s a huge liar in everyone if the situation calls for it. Truth was, they had shown some interest, but they never actually acted on it.
Yet.
But the council didn’t need to hear that, because I had the solution. Well, almost. If they would only let me trial a few of our men.
“Five men,” I said with a pleading voice. “Five men and six months. That’s all I need.”
Without a word, Kenya turned on her heels, her chest strutted and her lungs puffing. Svea hurried to her side, and together they clip-clopped and stomped toward the door.
“There won’t be any trial,” Kenya shouted without turning back. “And now get back to work and do something useful with your time, Max.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes, heaviness wearing down on my body like a weighted blanket. Nathalie wasn’t around anymore, so I had to be the one to kick ass. But first I needed to talk to someone. Someone who would likely slam the door right back into my face.
Chapter 5
Max
The Drainpipes. Its name as disgusting as its purpose.
Like the filth you pushed under the rug after you swept your marble floors, this part of the district only endured in the shadow of progressiveness.
It existed neither on maps nor on the mind of people, unless, of course, the council considered your mind dangerous. In that case, you were the crumb, the chewed off fingernail or the pebble — pushed under the rug, never to be seen again. But not me. Not today.
The yellow numbers on my holo-band made me gag. In and out in one hour, or my little project would collapse right on top of me, leaving me behind in this god-awful place.
I hurried down the sad-looking alley, my mind bouncing back and forth between I shouldn’t have come here and Why didn’t I come here more often.
I forced my foot down the step, my mind reciting a chorus for self-conviction: Nobody knows that you’re here. Nobody knows that you’re here.
But what if they did? A mumbled “Jesus Christ, Max” escaped my lips, making me swing my hand onto my mouth. Couldn’t say that stuff out loud here… or anywhere else, really.
If they caught me here, I’d lose my position at the lab, and they would investigate me. Did defenders ever patrol the Districts incognito? I gazed over my shoulder; first the left one then the right. Nothing.
Abandoned buildings lined my path, rotten plywood boards hanging on rusty screws driven deep into the crumbling brick. Water dripped somewhere, perhaps from the stained shirts and ripped pants draped over a line high above me, wallowing in the thick and clingy stench of old age and disease.
Underneath my white shirt, the fine hairs on my arm stood erect in a mixture of disgust, shame and a weird kind of anticipation.
The deeper I ventured, the more I reminded myself to breathe through my mouth.
I stepped around the corner, over what must have been someone’s half-digested dinner, and stopped at the glass door, woven with dozens of cracks which had yet to burst. In a mere whisper, I read the emergency-red graffiti above the door out loud. “We are made in the Lord’s image.” Sounds about right…
The thick paint had flaked in some spots over the years, but the words punched me in the face like an angry mob nonetheless, turning my stomach upside down. When was the last time I’ve seen this one? Two years? Three?
The rusty door wouldn’t budge, and I pushed my entire body against the metal frame, hoping the glass wouldn’t shatter. Can’t make such a fuss if you’re trying to keep a low profile inside a place you shouldn’t be.
A guy with a deep dent above his temple stared at me from one eye, the other hanging dull and lazily in its socket. My best bet was a brain tumor. But the water canons might just as well have injured him during a mob, back when there were still more crumbs than the rug could hide.
The judgmental beam of his one good eye burned through the back of my shirt as I walked along the hall. I didn’t turn until I had reached the second door to the right. Holding my arm up I hesitated for a moment, and it hit me like a rock on the head: what if he isn’t even alive anymore?
I sighed and gave a knock… knock… knock… on the door. Hinges screeched, but the wooden door in front of me stood unmoved. Pale skin appeared at the corner of my eye, mottled in brown and blueish spots. My heart raced. Was it councilwoman Kenya herself? I spun around on my heels, taking a deep breath of the sour air.
“Bless you, my child,” an elderly lady nodded and closed the apartment behind her. Her tired legs barely left the floor as she shuffled across the hallway, the dirty hem of her skirt dragging over the greasy floor, and her shoes squeaking with every tiny step she took.
A warm draft made me spin back to the wooden door. “Max!”
Sudden coldness flashed through me and deep into my core. At that momen
t, three years seemed like an eternity, and I stared into his weathered face, veiled in a haze of gray. His hair had already lost all of its color by the time I was sixteen, but it now also stood in several directions in matted white strands. Not unkept, just… downtrodden.
I wanted to hug him, because that’s what a family does, right? Instead, I gave a helpless shrug. “Hi, dad!”
His eyes narrowed and he poked his head into the hallway, searching for whoever he thought I was hiding out there. Couldn’t blame him, of course — can’t trust a traitor, now can you?
“It’s just me, dad. I tried to call you, but it says you discontinued your service?”
“Oh that, yes, yes,” he waved me inside, his hands smeared in something black which had rubbed deep into the friction ridges of his fingers. He closed the door behind him and turned the key in the lock. Then he reached up and placed the chain back into its hole. Then another. And a third one. “I didn’t really need it anyway, now that I’m not active anymore. Come, come! Sit down here.”
He pointed at something I figured might be an armchair, besieged by several small piles of books which leaned crookedly against each other, their tooled leather spines too dusty to betray who authored them.
Radical thinkers, for sure, or perhaps some religious coo-coo. Nothing had ever been more precious to him than his books, except for his children.
“There, sit down, son.” He placed the last pile of books on the ugly concrete floor, pushing it underneath a rustic bench with his foot.
I sat down, and dust flung up around me twirling through the dim light of the flickering bulb. My nose itched like a mosquito bite, and I crinkled my face. “Atchoo!”
“Gesundheit! You’re not getting sick, are you?”
“Um.” I ran my index finger over the side table next to me and showed him the half-inch layer of black fluff.