Genesis: A science-fiction short story. (3 page)

Sylvia cannot deny that both Maggie and Kate display completely different personalities. Maggie is her sweetheart and Kate is her rock; the only young child she had ever known to never, ever cry. Sylvia would never imagine to take responsibility for these characteristics within them; they were physically identical, but they had their own energy, spirits and souls.

Sylvia had been relieved when the doctors had said that her medical issues had likely rendered her sterile. Now she sits in the warm water and runs through the last year of her life and she wonders why she didn’t follow up—why she didn’t do anything at all.

She had known without a doubt that she needed to do something; she didn’t know why she had put it off, why she had procrastinated about such an incredibly important event.

She had just never expected this.

Sylvia gets out of the bathtub and feels the water run off of her. She touches her stomach, though she knows that it will be months before she can sense anything there. At this stage, her soon to be child is nothing more than a whisper within her. She wonders if, perhaps, her unique medical situation could cause her to miscarry.

She wonders if it would be possible to cause a miscarriage.

She spends her time drying herself off; she dresses herself more slowly than she really needs to, enjoying her moments alone. When she opens the door, she sees Caroline looking at her; half-expectant, half-fearful.

“I’m going to try the appeal process first,” says Sylvia, swallowing thickly. “I’m going to see if I can’t convince them otherwise.”

Caroline nods, supportively. She doesn’t say what she is thinking.

Caroline
Young leaves Sylvia’s home once the sun has already set; she boards the metro and stands against the windows, watching the city flash past. She can’t get Sylvia’s face out of her mind; her pale skin, and deep set, dark eyes, as though she had seen a ghost. Perhaps she had seen a ghost; the ghost of her future child.

Like Sylvia, Caroline is pregnant; she is three months along. Unlike Sylvia, Caroline is part of the Bulls.

The Bulls program is a special subset of genetically viable women, inseminated with only male children. There is no way to change the gender of any child in utero, and thus the process of developing male children to counteract the female children is quite involved.

Only the most genetically expressive women are selected; it is feared that Genesis will eventually lead to a significant narr
owing of the genetic pool, and the Bulls are the way of controlling this.

Until the age of 29, Caroline’s life will be mostly governed by the Bulls. She has weekly check-ins regarding her health and she is expected to give birth to a total of five children. Caroline is not allowed to enter into a relationship during this time and she is not allowed to engage in any risky behavior.

She will only raise one of these children herself; the others will be distributed, and she will never know where. She could have had the option of raising none of them, but she has chosen to keep her next and her last.

As a trade-off, Caroline’s life is very easy. Her expenses are paid for and she lives in government housing; she has already finished obtaining her degrees and they were completely paid for. When she terms out of her contract, she will be given a substantial stipend based, in part, on the quality of her progeny.

Caroline wonders what it might be like to have a girl child; what it might be like to have a Genesis child. She has conceived through Genesis three times in her life, but, per the terms of her Bulls contract, the pregnancies were caught early and terminated without question.

The metro stops directly in front of Caroline’s
home; a modest, six story government building that is more luxurious inside than from the exterior. She scans her phone at the entrance and is allowed in, where an elevator takes her to her apartment. It seems very empty to her; it always seems empty, after she comes from Sylvia’s home.

Sylvia Rider checks her email again, even though she knows that nothing new has come in. She has checked it twelve times in the past two hours, and she knows that it isn’t helping. Despite this, she cannot stop and she cannot focus on her work.

Sylvia’s coworkers say nothing to her; they all know, or at least they suspect. She knows that the women are talking about her behind her back.

The women who were sterilized upon puberty are jealous of Sylvia’s children. The women who had natural children and then opted for sterilization later believe that Sylvia is irresponsible. The women who had a Genesis child and then opted for sterilization believe that Sylvia is selfish.

Having a single Genesis child is a simple and common enough mistake. Having two Genesis children was unforgivable and having a third would make Sylvia a functional outcast. Sylvia knew this from the start, but that didn’t make it any easier.

Genesis children were unavoidable, to a certain extent, and they had their own part in the reproductive symbiosis of society; Genesis children were allowed and even desired from some genetic backgrounds. For the most part, they were offset by the Bulls. But no amount of government planning could ever completely erase the social stigma.

Sylvia’s phone rings; she answers as quickly as possible, eve
n before looking at the caller.

“Yes?” she asks, and then clears her head. “I mean, hello?”

“Is this Sylvia Rider?” asks a male voice on the other end.

“Yes, this is,” she says, quickly.

“I’m sorry to tell you that your reproductive appeal has been denied,” says the man. Sylvia cannot believe that it’s happening so fast; she was waiting for news, but did not expect such a definitive answer.

“Which one?” she asks
, desperate and uncertain. “I mean, I put in two. One for termination rights and the other a certification appeal. Which one was denied?”

“Both, I’m afraid,” says the man. “However, you may schedule a court date, if desired
, to revisit your case.”

“What will—what will that do?” asks Sylvia.

“Well, you can either get a public attorney or you can hire one,” says the clerk, in a monotone voice. “The judge will hear any evidence you have on your side and will make a determination based on this evidence.”

“Is it likely? I mean, do people often get their appeals put through with a judge?” asks Sylvia.
She cannot recall anyone she knows who did this.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. All I can say is that it would be the next step in the process if you want to move through with your appeal,” says the man.
She reflects that this news—this momentous, life-changing news—is being delivered by a clerk whose name she does not even know.

“Then… I would like to schedule a court date,” says Sylvia. She drops her voice lower now, noticing one of her coworkers watching her, out of the corner of her eye.
“I want to get a court date. I’m available any time.”

“I can schedule you for… November 11
th
,” says the man, slowly, as though looking at a calendar.

“That’s almost six months away,” says Sylvia,
thinking that it must be a mistake. She opens up her calendar to continue her planning. “I need a court date much earlier than then. I’m already two months along.”

“I’m sorry, that’s the earliest,” says the man, at the other end.

“No, I need an earlier court date,” says Sylvia, emphasizing the words. She wonders if the man does not understand her, and she feels the very brief hope she had slipping away.

“There’s nothing I can do, that is the only appeal date I can offer you. Do you want to schedule it? It will be at 2:30 PM. You’ll need to arrive at 8:00 AM to check in.”

“Is there anything else, anything at all, I can do?” asks Sylvia, in frustration. “Anything else I can reasonably do?”

“This is the only appeal process, I’m sorry,” says the man, who does not sound sorry.

Sylvia hangs up the phone, without saying goodbye. Her mind races; she wonders if she should call back and set the court date. She wonders if she should write a letter. She wonders if she should find a lawyer. Her head spins, and all she can do—all she can think to do—is to continue her work.

Caroline Young stops by the grocery store; it is only a block away from her apartment, and she has run out of the sugar-free, strawberry yogurt that is on her food list. Her food list is important; it is designed for her by a government nutritionist and her contract requires that she adhere to it.

During her first couple of pregnancies she was sometimes lax, but they always seemed to know when she had cheated. Now that she is nearing the end of her contract, she doesn’t want to give them any reason to question her.

As she enters the market, she self-consciously lowers the cuff of her jacket, holding it to her wrist with her middle finger. She knows that some of the Bulls enjoy being noticed; she does not. As a Bulls, her certification is voided; she will live a natural life, unlike her children.

The store is quiet; most people are at work, but Caroline doesn’t have to work. She picks through the store, selecting the things she is allowed to eat and disregarding the things that she is not. As she walks out of the market, the items she
has in her bag are automatically added together and charged to her account.

As she exits the marketplace doors, an older woman holds an arm up, cautioning her back. At the end of the street, Caroline sees a man running through the street, wearing slacks and a buttoned-up shirt and a loose-fitting jacket. She backs up against the wall as three peace officers dressed in black vests and helmets thunder past her.

It is over within minutes. One of the peace offers brings the man down, and the other grabs his arms roughly and wraps plastic tape around his hands. They pull the man to his feet; he’s in 40s, Caroline thinks, and tears and sweat run down his face.

“This can’t be! This can’t be! It’s a mistake!” he shouts at them, pulling at them as they drag him away. “I’m not who you think! I’m not who you think!”

“Lee Walters, you are under arrest,” begins one of the peace officers, by rote, as they lead him away. “You are not required to say anything, but anything that you do say…”

Caroline has almost dropped her grocery bags; she tightens her grip as she recovers from the scene. All around her, men and women together, are staring as the man is led away.

“Another one?” asks a man beside her. She looks at him; he is in his mid-30s, and his face has run pale. “I don’t know why they run. Do you think they actually think they can get away?”

“Maybe some do,” says Caroline, studying the man closely. He shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair nervously.

“I don’t think any of them do,” he says, mostly to himself, as he backs away into the store.

Sylvia Rider goes home in a daze; she barely remembers the contents of the day, only that it happened. She immediately calls Caroline, but she gets no response; she leaves a voice mail, but knows that it will not be listened to. Caroline never listens to her voice mails; it’s driven Sylvia insane since they were teenagers.

It is 4:00 PM; her children will not be home from school for another hour. On other days, this brief hour was Sylvia’s personal time. She would relax while preparing a meal, or sit down and read a book. Now she paces her living room, wondering about her next course of action.

Shaking, Sylvia dials a number that she remembers by heart. She stares at it, without dialing. She wonders if there really are any right answers; if there is a right solution or if she’s just grasping for any solution that she can live with. Frustrated with herself and her own lack of resolve, she turns off the screen of her phone and screams, screams as loud as she can.

Lee Walters leans his head against the cold metal of the van. His hands are still taped behind him and the bench he is sitting on is surprisingly comfortable. To his left and his right are peace officers young enough to be his sons; in front of him, a man older than himself has just finished reading his rights.

“Does this seem fair at all to you?” asks Lee. “How old are you? 50? 60?
I’m younger than you!”

“Sir, I must ask you to remain calm,” says one of the younger men beside him. The man looks nervous, more nervous than Lee feels; he can see that the young man’s eyes are red-rimmed.

“Didn’t expect to run someone down with a hangover, did you?” asks Lee. “Feel sick? A little motion sick? Feel like throwing up, do you?”

The young man’s eyes dart away, and he takes off his helmet. Lee can see that the young man is sweating heavily; not entirely from the chase, and definitely not from the cool air of the van. The young man glares at him out of the corner of his eyes, and then looks downwards.

“You had ample time to seek judgment in the court of appeals,” says the man in front of him, who is clearly in charge. Lee focuses his eyes on the man’s silver, gleaming badge, which reads “Sergeant Ernest Masterson.”

“No one has ever won in the court of appeals,” states Lee.

“The court of appeals is the appropriate venue for any of your concerns,” says Sgt. Masterson, ignoring Lee’s comment. The van passes by a bump, and Lee feels his stomach leap into his throat and then back downwards. He is already calculating the scenarios in his head.