Breeder

by Honni van Rijswijk

  “Yes,” I say, as I to try to read the situation.

  “She also tells me you’re a super-producer,” the dean continues.

  I look at the surgeon, who nods. “I was telling the dean earlier that we’ve tested your ovaries. Based on your egg count and egg quality, as well as the fertility history of your bio-parents and the quality of your live birth, I have no doubt that you’re a super-producer. Increasingly rare. And valuable.” She takes a sip of wine.

  I feel a shiver up my spine. It’s not as though I’m used to privacy or anything, but it would be great if I could get through one day without someone mentioning my body or its “outputs.”

  “I sincerely hope you’re considering Excelsior,” the dean says. I look at the surgeon, who raises her eyebrows slightly.

  “Yes,” I tell the dean. “I’m considering a couple of places, but Excelsior is definitely up there.”

  The surgeon smiles. The dean stops smiling. “Do you think you’ll major in the sciences or the humanities?”

  “Science, I think.”

  “Contributing to the collective good,” he opines. “That’s wonderful. There’s so much work to be done in infertility, human health . . .” he trails off. “Does she actually understand the college system?” he whispers to the surgeon. So he must know I’m not the surgeon’s niece. I wonder how much he’s getting paid, and how.

  The surgeon shrugs, turns to me. “This is how it works. Super-producers like you are allowed to attend elite Zone A colleges for four years. They get a superior education, they live a superior life. All they have to do is provide the Corp with gametes. It’s easier for the boys, of course, but they have to play their part too.” The dean smiles at her. “The girls go on fertility drugs every sixty days. They have their eggs extracted—we can get up to forty or fifty eggs each time. We create embryos, test them for problems, and put the viable embryos into Breeders. Right now, with super-producers like you, we’re getting forty pregnancies every two months.”

  The dean interrupts. “Is it really that high?”

  “Yes,” she says to the dean. “Ever since we implemented embryo testing.”

  She turns back to me. “Now, the kids who are infertile, or less fertile, they’re not getting the same privileges you are—unless they’re very, very wealthy and their families can pay the tuition themselves. Every Corp kid is forced by law to give us their gametes, if they’re fertile, but they’re unlikely to secure a place at an elite college unless they’re a super-producer. There are lots of lower-tier colleges out there for the others. The musicians here tonight are from a local musical college, working off some of their debt. Does all that make sense?”

  “Yes,” I say, my mind racing. I turn to the dean. “I’d like to study genetics.” I can feel my face grow hot, being so open, but it’s true—I’d love to research ways to get beyond infertility. A Westie kid studying genetics at an elite university. What would Ma say?

  “Splendid,” says the dean.

  Then the door opens, and a member of staff shows somebody else in.

  “Sorry I’m late!” the new person says. He’s a middle-aged, Rob-style man. The surgeon introduces him as “Luke Stone, a college admissions agent,” but he is clearly a Gray Corps affiliate. A kid like me who’s grown up in Zone F will always know who’s in the Gray Corps, who’s Corp, who’s Westie; how to read them and what they really want and how to play them. As soon as I see that the Gray Corps is involved, everything becomes clear. While recruitment of fertile kids to colleges seems to be part of Zone A life and is legal, I’m sure poaching Breeders from the Incubator is not—or rather, recruitment under the table for a huge unit bonus is not. Just as Ma always said, the whole world runs on dirty money and the ruddy-faced, proper-looking dean is “laundering” me and my eggs through his college as though I were a real Corp girl from Zone A. The only way he can do that is with the help of the Gray Corps, so that means Luke. Luke’s handling the transfer of units, and my new ID in the Grid. And he’s not only handling the setup of the deal—he’s going to be laundering each new egg production.

  The dean smiles at Luke, not looking bothered by his presence at all, which confirms my hunch.

  “I’m so glad we’re all here now,” the dean says. He sits up, clearly getting ready to make a speech. “You know, I’ve always been so proud of Excelsior College and my work there. I know you’re considering offers from other schools . . .” he nods to me and Luke hides his surprise well. “So I’ll outline what I think we can offer you at Excelsior. As your aunt has probably told you, my college consistently ranks number one in the zone. We are the oldest college and, in fact, we predate the End Times, having served the original Corporation families long before the Fourth World Depression.”

  The dean likes to hear his own voice, and he has a great sense of his own importance. The surgeon calls over another waitstaff to fill the dean’s glass.

  “We pride ourselves on welcoming our scholarship students—the super donors—at Excelsior as warmly as we welcome the Corp’s oldest and finest families,” he says. “So, madam, I would like to raise a toast to yourself and your niece.”

  He holds up his glass. I look over at the surgeon and see that she’s holding her glass up too, and so is Luke, so I hold mine up, even though I’ve already drunk whatever was in it.

  “Let’s talk specific terms,” Luke says, with some impatience.

  The dean clears his throat and the look on his and the surgeon’s face almost makes me laugh. They’re obviously not used to dealing with Gray Corps affiliates, who prefer to talk bluntly. The surgeon and the dean would both rather pretend that this is an elegant social dinner, not a corrupt meeting where they’re leasing out a fifteen-year-old’s eggs. As they talk, I steal glances at Luke. After so long in the Incubator, I stare at Luke more than I should, because I find him weirdly soothing—a reminder of my old life.

  The dean looks meaningfully at me. “Shall we retire to another room?”

  Luke shrugs. “She may as well hear terms.” I’m the object of the contract and there’s nothing I can do about the terms anyway—if I take a step wrong, Luke and his Gray Corps affiliates will stick me in the Rator. I pretend to be fascinated by my food and the fizzy drink that makes me light-headed, but I pay careful attention to all the details. The sums are unreal—one hundred thousand units each to the dean, the surgeon, and Luke on signing; but the real kicker is twenty thousand to each, for every live birth. At 240 births per year that’s almost five million units per year. Each. The initial one hundred thousand units will come from a Corporation endowment, the dean says, which means the dean will be laundering me under the auspices of a “special scholarship,” paid for by his college. The five-million-unit live-birth payments will be paid for by the new parents, directly to the college. A waitstaff refills my glass and when she puts it back on the table, she leaves her hand around it a second too long. She doesn’t look at me. She turns and before she walks away, hesitates. Then I hear her feet moving quickly along the carpet.

  “Can I go to the bathroom?” I ask the surgeon.

  She nods. “Of course.”

  I head outside the room as fast as I can without being too obvious, but the corridor is empty. I walk down until I get to the central staircase. I can hear footsteps running up the top of the stairs, but I can’t see anyone. Then I turn and enter the bathroom. I’m only there a few seconds when there’s a sharp knock. I open the door and there she is: she’s my age, dressed in the uniform, and holding out a package the size of an egg.

  “For Cate,” she says, pushing her way inside the bathroom with me. “Long live the Response.”

  “Thanks,” I say. I work quickly to take the package apart. It contains basic materials that are banned everywhere. She watches as I hide the components in my underwear and bra and inside the small pockets I’ve made from tape and elastic and then I give her back the plastic conta
iner.

  There’s hostility in her look. “What?” I say.

  “Were you really a Breeder?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “And now they’re working out how to send you to Excelsior?” she asks. “Well, good luck, then,” she says sarcastically and leaves.

  I count to five, flush the toilet and come out. But she’s already gone.

  Back in the overheated room, the three people around the table are scanning each other’s chips, transferring holding deposits.

  •

  The dean graciously condescends to shake my hand before he leaves.

  “Trinity term has just ended,” he says, a little drunkenly, “so we’ll have you start in Michaelmas term. But why don’t you start coming into the college over the vacation so you can familiarize yourself with the library and the labs? I’ll get a couple of my favorite students to show you around.”

  He’s flushed with the booze and his win. “I am so very pleased you will be joining us at Excelsior,” he goes on. “In fact, why don’t you join us tomorrow for our end of term celebrations? I’ll arrange a temporary pass for you, Will.”

  “That would be so lovely,” says the surgeon, and they shake hands. “We would adore that.”

  •

  After they’ve left, the surgeon is glowing. A member of staff gives me my Incubator tracksuit and I change in the bathroom. Then the surgeon places her hand on the small of my back again, walking me toward the foyer. I’m very conscious of the explosive components tucked around my body, and how close they are to her hand, as she says, “I’m going to explain how the contract between you and I will work. Nothing official, of course, but I’ll uphold my end. Do you understand?”

  I nod.

  Then she lays it all out. I will become a college girl and serve my four years. “You’ll live with me while I teach you how to be a college girl. You’ll need a new name, Will, and a new history. You must never tell anyone you were a Westie, or a Breeder. Everything is conditional on your ongoing performance under the contract. I can send you back to the Incubator any time.

  “I’ll pay you ten thousand units upfront. After the four years, if you hit all your contractual points—generate two hundred forty live births per year—I will pay you an additional fifty thousand units. Then you’ll be released into Zone B with a profesh job. You’ll be able to put down a deposit on a house, Will. You’ll be able to save some of your own gametes at the Incubator and use Corp sperm to make future children.”

  A year ago, this was my dream. Now, I couldn’t care less, unless Alex can come too.

  “I agree to your terms,” I tell her. “But . . .” I hesitate—you can make a threat or a demand to someone exactly once.

  “Yes?”

  “I have a . . . condition.”

  “A condition? You mean, apart from me not sending you to the Incubator for the next twenty years?”

  Has she forgotten that I’ve heard the sums involved? She’s not going to give me up. I talk quickly, to get it all out. “When I was put in the Incubator, my girlfriend Alex was too. I want her to be released as part of my contract. I want her to stop breeding immediately and go to work with the kids in the Preincubation Program at the same time that I go to college. Then, when I’ve finished my contract, I want her to come with me, into Zone B. With her own profesh job, and her own units.”

  The surgeon looks genuinely surprised. I can tell she’s never heard of Alex, and she’s usually so on top of her data. We’re standing in the middle of the foyer and she types into her device, bringing up Alex’s file. I can see a young photo of Alex, probably from her last Incubation. She flicks through the record.

  “I don’t see what you’re actually offering me here,” the surgeon says, looking at me with her clear, impassive eyes.

  I feel a shot of anger, as I literally could give her nothing more, considering that she’s leasing my full person for the next four years. But I know it’s nothing personal. To the Corp, every single person is a contractual opportunity.

  “Honestly?” I say. “I’m wondering how I’ll survive the next four years—and how you’ll get your five million units a year—without killing myself. Unless I can see a point to it all. For me, Alex would be that point.”

  She considers, then nods. “I’ll have to look into it. Especially into Alex. Of course, I’d want you to increase your output—we’d add four more egg retrievals each year that would go entirely to me.”

  “Okay.”

  “But this is not settled yet, do you understand? I’m just agreeing to look into it.”

  “Yes. Okay. Thank you.”

  I’m smiling, despite myself. I can hardly breathe, I’m so happy.

  She hands me a small, pretty box. “Here’s a new cell device for you. Everyone will have one tomorrow at the college. And I want us to be able to stay in touch.”

  “Thanks,” I say and take it out. It’s bright red and sleek.

  “It’s set up so you can only contact me or Luke on it,” she adds.

  When we step outside, Luke is waiting for us. He has changed into an orange suit.

  The surgeon smiles at him. “Luke has been agreed upon by all parties to protect you. Now that your contract is in process, everyone wants to preserve their asset. Of course, as soon as Luke’s people organize your new chip and your transfer to Zone A on the Grid, we’ll move you up to Zone A permanently,” she says.

  Luke and I nod at each other, like we’re regular people, like he’s not my personal prison guard.

  “Let’s go,” Luke says, and I follow him to the garage.

  I see that Luke’s car is crap—just a run-down, silver sedan. I’m quick to hide my surprise. Luke’s car tells me that he’s relatively low down in the Gray Corps, which in turn tells me that he wasn’t once a legit Corp who went crooked—like Corp lawyer Rob—but that he’s a Westie like me, who has to move slowly, painstakingly, through the Gray Corps ranks.

  We drive away from the surgeon’s house. It’s late afternoon and it’s the first time I’ve been in Zone A without being in the back of an Incubator van, sedated. I see the surgeon’s house from outside: a six-story, red-stone mansion. We pass similar houses and drive down similar streets and I think about how in each of those houses, there’s only one person, or perhaps a family, kept there by a full staff. I think about the crowded apartment blocks in Zone F, where two or three families might live, of the shacks Ma and I lived in. Here, there are parks and so many beautiful trees. We slow at some traffic lights and I see two people waiting to cross the road.

  “What’s wrong with their skin?” I ask Luke. “What disease is that?”

  He looks over. “No disease,” he says. “They’re just old.”

  “How old?”

  “Eighty? Maybe eighty-five?”

  I must have gasped because he nods. “It’s true.”

  I can’t think of anyone I know who’s older than fifty, maybe sixty tops. It gets harder and harder to keep up with the Corp rates of productivity as you get older, so a lot of old people get taken out during the Rator Days.

  Then the city changes and the buildings get denser—there are lots of smaller houses, and then apartment buildings. By the time we reach the security post to Zone B, we’re passing high-rise buildings and offices. This is where the less privileged people of Zone A live. They’re still nice places, but there’s a vast difference between these apartment blocks and the surgeon’s house.

  As we approach the Incubator, I watch Luke’s face in the rearview mirror, as I used to do with Rob. I’m trying to place Luke: shitty car, probably thirty-five years old. He’s only a low-level Gray Corps affiliate, and that means he has years of this sad life ahead of him. So maybe he’d take a risk to go up the ranks quickly. It’s a tricky business, reading people.

  Luke stares at the road ahead and doesn’t meet my eyes once. W
hen we get to the Incubator, he holds his wrist to the scanner, and the gates open—the surgeon has obviously sorted his ID. We park and he’s nodded through the front door and walks up to my cell with me. Now I’m wondering how the hell I’m going to get the package to Cate, so I can see Alex, with Luke hanging around.

  •

  In the middle of the night, I’m shaken awake and I look up and see an orange Shadow suit holding a flashlight. Luke is immediately awake, and the Shadow jumps back—clearly shocked to see an orange suit in my cell at this hour who isn’t one of Cate’s—but she recovers quickly.

  “I’m on special duty with this Breeder,” Luke says, and the Shadow scans his wrist and nods, seeing that he has the authority of the surgeon.

  “I need to take her for a random drug test,” she says, shackling my wrist to hers. “Illegal trade is up.”

  Luke nods, and starts to walk toward the sliding doors with us, when the suit shakes her head. “No, you can’t attend. The Code states that only Shadow guards can accompany Breeders to medical. Remember?”

  Luke nods.

  “We’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

  Luke hesitates, realizes he doesn’t have a comeback, and then says, “Okay.”

  She takes me into the corridor, and with my free hand, I double-check that the components are still in the pockets under my tracksuit.

  It’s so strange to be walking around the Incubator at night. I can see the clear doors all around the Circle, lit by the low night lights. Only a couple of doors have figures behind them, staring out. I look away, so as not to make eye contact or to attract attention. The orange suit is silent, leading me by the wrist to the end of the corridor, down the fire escape and down, down, down six flights of metal stairs. I’m slow and puffing because I’m not used to the exercise. She tugs my wrist. “Hurry up.”

  At the bottom, she swings open the heavy door and hands me a face mask and then pushes me outside. “I’ll be right here,” she says, leaning against the fire exit and taking out a pack of cigarettes.