The Breeding Tree

by J. Andersen

  Her face hardens, and she looks like she doesn’t believe my promise. She continues anyway. “You should have heard what they said today.” Her lips pull back, revealing a perfectly straight line of false teeth. Dentures. She scrapes one ridged fingernail over the surface of her front tooth, which makes the entire line of them fall away from her gums. She pushes the denture back in place with her tongue. It’s so strange to think an old person could lose their teeth like a child.

  When I was little and Gran was able to interact more without raising suspicion, she used to play tricks on me. “Look, Katie-Did,” she’d say. Then she’d flip her teeth upside down in her mouth and smile a crooked, upside down grin. Sucking them back in place, she’d smile again, and the light would flash off her single gold-capped tooth.

  I realize I haven’t seen that metal tooth in a while.

  She doesn’t smile much anymore.

  Today, her silver hair is brushed away from her forehead and secured in a tight braided bun at the base of her unmarked neck. She raises her arm and brushes a hair that came loose in the breeze a little too quickly. Glancing around, she eases her arm back into her lap.

  “What is it this time, Gran?”

  She turns her face to the sun and closes her eyes.

  “They’re going to discharge Mr. Ross.”

  “Henry?”

  “Yes.” She folds her hands together on her lap.

  “They say he’s gotten too bad.” Her face turns sad, and her eyes well up with tears, but she won’t let them spill over. “It’s true. He is. But it’s too soon. It’s always too soon.” She sighs. “They’re making an announcement on Friday.”

  I reach out and tuck that lock behind her ear again. As I do, her face tilts into my hand, and her skin feels thin and brittle against my palm.

  “You’re the only one who touches me like that, Katie-Did.”

  I give her a soft smile and pull my arm away slowly.

  “So, a discharge isn’t any news, Gran.”

  “It is when it puts the Wombers down to nine. Nine of us left, Katie-Did. Not only that,” she grasps my hand in hers and draws me in close to her. I smell the rosewater they bathe her in. “They’ve planned to discharge the rest of us once a month until we’re gone. I’m the last on the list because I’m the youngest of all of them.”

  Gran leans back. My skin goes cold, and I can’t breathe. Holding her fingers between my hands, I stare deep into the ocean of her eyes.

  So alive. And no one can see it. She can’t let them see it. If she did, they wouldn’t wait nine months.

  They’d kill her now.

  FOUR

  PARANOID

  Code of Conduct and Ethics: The Institute—Sector 4, USA

  Section 2 Article 1.1: Be truthful and honest in all interactions with your fellow man. Lies and secrets will bring about harsh retribution.

  IT’S EARLY. NOT QUITE six. But if I’m going to be on time for the career assignments they’re giving today, I need to get moving. Being late is not an option. By the time I leave the house and stop by Meg’s Café for my morning coffee, the line reaches around the corner. I know I’ll have to jog the few blocks to The Institute to avoid being tardy. Gotta love year round career preparation. In undergraduate schooling, we had a few months of respite before heading back to school, but not anymore.

  Any demerits will mean closer surveillance of my movements, perhaps even a personal escort, and right now, I can’t afford that. Not after sneaking around with Gran. I always have to be extra careful after my visits with her.

  It’s at least a ten-minute walk to The Institute and another ten to the Education Department. The buildings are all interconnected, just like the people here. At least, that’s what we’ve always been taught in all our classes. Our community is an extension of The Institute, the living, breathing organism that mimics its stone counterpart.

  The campus spans most of the city with a branch for medicine next to the education section. All the shops and eating houses are located within its borders, and all the residents work within its factories or subdivisions. The library, the research facilities, and even Gran’s retirement home are considered part of The Institute. It’s a massive construction, surrounded by a three-foot high brick wall along its boundaries. The only things outside The Institute are private residences and a few roads leading to other communities like ours. If you travel far enough, you’d arrive at other sectors. I’ve never been outside the borders. Most people haven’t. One must have special clearance to travel to another sector.

  Even the far boundaries are surrounded by high fencing. To keep us protected, they say. And then there’s the Outer Lands. But few venture beyond the boundaries of our community, and then only for purposes defined by The Institute.

  It’s a dangerous place out there, and The Institute wants to keep us safe.

  Grandeur is a key component to the construction of our society. The buildings, with their massive peaks and ornate carved stone, leak beauty from every corner. Often, I find myself distracted by the curling stonework along The Institute’s edges or the endless patches of flowers littering every corner, yard, and tree base in our town. On more than one occasion, I’ve had to rush to class so as not to be late.

  The people passing by me on the walkway are as well constructed as the buildings. We’re all bred that way. The Institute pours all its creative energy into the outer face of its facilities, leaving little variation and beauty for its people. Sure, we have strong bodies and sound minds, but our outward appearance is steadily growing more and more identical to the next. One massive sea of brown haired, brown eyed, light skinned, average-looking people. At least in Sector 4. Some days I wish I could gain the clearance to travel to the other sectors to see what the other leaders have done for their people.

  The main gates squeal in protest as I yank them open and race along the pathway past the library and a block of shops. I pass the retirement center and enter through the main doors of the hospital, which is linked to the research center. At the far end of the research center are doors leading to the education department. This is where I need to be in less than seven minutes.

  The good thing about having everything interconnected is that I can get from one place to another from either inside or outside.

  My classroom is at the far end of the hallway, past the Creation Unit laboratories. That’s why I come this way. Passing those doors daily is a constant reminder to stay focused on my goals. If I’m ever going to be chosen as a Creation Scientist, I need to do well in my studies. It’s one of the most prestigious careers available to our people. And I want it.

  With a few minutes to spare, I take my seat in the second row of my classroom and pull out my compact. One click and it lights up. I flick my fingers around the screen. Closing out a notice about one of the original Wombers dying and an old news article about a teenager mangled in a car accident I used for research.

  I focus instead on the research project due today. “The Unviables: Progress of our Kind.”

  Clicking on the file opens it, and I scan the document for any glaring errors. Not that I would find any in the three minutes I have before Professor Limbert arrives.

  After scanning over two pages, I give up. Why am I even trying? If it’s not perfect by now, it’s never going to be. With one tap of my fingertips on the screen, I send my project to the class server where it will be graded, analyzed, and sent to the professor’s compact.

  Hopefully, this will get me into the lab apprenticeship.

  I still remember my dad’s reaction when I told him what I wanted to do with my life. “A lofty goal,” he said, “but one that can be attained if you work hard enough.” Being a research scientist in data collections himself, he was glad his only child was following in his scientific footsteps. My mother, on the other hand, wanted me to go into the justice field like she did, but dealing wit
h criminals all my life seems like too much of a downer. No. I’d much rather have the wonder and excitement of creating human life. That is the ultimate job.

  A few other students have gathered, and soon the classroom is bustling. Professor Limbert rushes in, slapping his compact on the desk at the front of the room. He seems a bit frazzled.

  “Take your seats,” he calls. Everyone sits, opens their compacts on their desks and folds their hands in their laps while they wait for his instructions. The screens and keyboards provide even more light to the bright room.

  His compact beeps as it receives a message. He glances at the screen, then steps away from the desk, pacing up and down each row as he does each morning. It’s a technique used to intimidate us. To show his authority to his students. But it’s unnecessary. We wouldn’t dare cross a man of his stature.

  “I see a few of you waited till this morning to turn in your projects.”

  I blush as he slows his pace and places a hand on my desk.

  “You should be thankful,” he continues, after tapping his index finger on my table twice, “for the immediate feedback from our data systems.” Then, as any good teacher of The Institute would, he reminds us of our advancements at the hands of science. “If we lived a few generations ago, you would have had to wait to receive your homework. I would have had to read through each project individually and decide on your assignment and placement after much deliberation. Your future would hinge on my decision.”

  A silent understanding fills the room. We’re all thankful Professor Limbert isn’t the one deciding our fates. Imagine the chaos of putting our futures into the hands of one or two people. It’s a crazy thought.

  “But now …” He steps forward again, moving into the other row. “Thanks to The Institute’s efficiency, I have your apprenticeships ready.”

  A nervous hush falls over the class. We’ve been waiting for this day all semester, and we all look around, wondering if our weeks of work will pay off … if we’ll get the placement we’ve dreamed of since we were children. Some will. Some won’t. And we’ll be able to determine who does and who doesn’t by the looks on their faces.

  All at once, multiple beeps sound, indicating a new message from The Institute.

  I press the open button, and the seal of The Institute appears. The icon moves, and the envelope graphic opens. It unfolds, and I read the words on the screen.

  Congratulations, Katherine Dennard,

  You’ve been assigned to the Creation unit.

  Yes! Awesome! Everything is falling into place, and I’ll finally get my chance to see if the things Gran says are true.

  ***

  “Units one and three, please move to the back of the classroom,” Professor Limbert says. “Your lab technician will be here shortly. Professor Donovan will be overseeing your progress from here on out. That’s not to say you can’t come to me for anything, but Professor Donovan is also an unending source of useful information for your studies. Unit four, follow this young woman. She’ll show you down to the horticulture unit.”

  I wrinkle my nose. Why anyone would want to study plants is beyond my comprehension. But I suppose it’s useful, knowing how to create the food that sustains us. To me, it would be my personal hell having to rummage around in the dirt. As they leave, I say a silent thank you to the computer system that decided my future.

  A line of my friends march out behind a twenty-something woman, and I turn my attention back to the professor. He’ll be calling unit two, my group, momentarily. When I turn back, my skin grows cold.

  Sweat breaks out on the palms of my hands, and my heart thumps so loudly, I swear people around me can hear it. Nervous anticipation, my mother calls it. She says it happens to her whenever she’s awaiting a judicial decision.

  “Unit two,” Professor Limbert says, “this is Micah. He’ll lead your group.” He points to his side where a tall, lanky guy stands. “He’ll be taking you to the Creation lab and showing you around for the next few weeks.”

  I look at the guy again. The same black hair. The same gray eyes.

  The boy who ran into me the night I was followed. He glares straight at me with a look that could kill. And my blood runs cold.

  He was the one following me.

  FIVE

  CREATION UNIT

  Code of Conduct and Ethics: The Institute—Sector 4, USA

  Section 7 Article 3.9: In all interactions with your superiors, listen and learn. Conduct yourself with the utmost restraint. Respect your superiors. A quiet, thoughtful presence is best.

  I PACK UP MY compact and move to the front of the room behind Taryn. We’ve sat next to each other since kindergarten. When we reach the front of the room, she whispers in her high-pitched sing-song voice, “Yikes! He’s a hottie.”

  I stare at her as she runs her eyes from the top of his head all the way down. I’d like to be able to admit how much of a turn-on his broad shoulders and gray eyes are. Or how I’m intrigued at how he stands out from the rest of us. Taller than average. His jet black hair, light eyes and olive skin are an anomaly. Add in the long nose and square jaw with a speckling of stubble covering it, and it’s hard to deny. He’s extraordinary. Even the way he stands with his arms crossed and a serious look on his face can’t hide the fact that he’s handsome.

  Not that his features don’t happen occasionally in the Creation Unit. They’re just rare. Like Taryn. Her hair is a little too light for her to look exactly like the others, and her tiny frame stands out from the rest. But she’s still in the normal spectrum for our society with her brown eyes and average build. Not like Micah. I guess these differences are to be expected … until the spectrum is narrowed. Our scientific advances, when it comes to breeding, are still young. It hasn’t been perfected yet. There are still differences in hair color and eye color, even in skin tones. But it’s still weird. That’s why it’s part of our job as creation specialists to reduce these anomalies. In a few generations, we’ll all look the same. No one person better looking than the next. It’s best for our society. Less competition on a personal level creates a greater focus on our community at large, something that will benefit the whole. Then one day, during a generation I will never know, they’ll combine the sectors and their perfected human beings together again. It’ll be the ultimate human race. It’s all explained in the Code of Conduct and Ethics.

  “Follow me,” he says. His voice is deep, too. Not the mellow tenor of most of my classmates.

  A line of about seven other students walks silently behind him. He doesn’t give any introduction to our duties until we arrive at the Creation Unit. I’m forced, instead, to observe the way he ambles with a sway in his stride like his long legs have too far to move to take the next step. He rolls up the sleeves of his lab coat, revealing defined forearms covered with the same black hair that glistens on his head.

  He turns to check on the group, and the light catches against his fierce cheekbones and squared jawline. He looks harsh. Demanding. Dangerous. And incredibly stunning.

  We pass what seems like miles of sterile white walls before we stop at a set of double doors. Above the door is a sign, Utero. The windows are tinted, so we can’t see what lies inside, but we know. It’s our future.

  It’s here we will study the science of genetics. We will create life and rid our community of disease and difference. We’ll create the next generation of Sector 4.

  The future will literally be in our hands.

  Micah bursts the bubble of our excitement. “Today, you won’t participate in any lab procedures. For the first few weeks, you’ll observe and learn.” His eyes scan the small crowd of anxious first-year residents, resting on me for a second longer than anyone else. “At the end of the tour, notes will be sent to your compact. You’re expected to have all terms and tools memorized by Wednesday’s lab.”

  As he speaks, a wave of hair falls onto his forehe
ad and sways in the tiny breeze of the air conditioner. His hard features soften for a millisecond. The change mesmerizes me, and when he turns his back to us and pushes through the heavy, metal doors, I realize I have no idea what he’s said.

  Everyone around me sets their compacts to low light as we enter the darkened room, so I do the same. Micah must have mentioned something about this. Lining the walls of the room are locked glass cases filled with shelves of Petri dishes. Each is labeled with a date. I scan the labels as we walk past. Batch 1. Three weeks old. Work tables line the center of the room, and in the far corner is a supply closet. Just above that, attached to the ceiling, is a small dome with a blinking light. Surveillance. Amazing I even notice these things anymore. They’re everywhere.

  Micah stops a few steps ahead. “We keep the lights down and use black bulbs to mimic the conditions in a natural womb. Here you’ll notice the beginning of life.” He peers into the case of Petri dishes in various sizes. “Each of these zygotes was created recently, and by the end of the week, we’ll transfer these specimens to the growth unit.”

  Taryn gazes into the microscope attached to the wall cases. “Isn’t this amazing?” I look through the eyepiece and see the cells rapidly dividing. “Yeah,” I answer, breathless with wonder.

  It’s remarkable. These containers hold the lives of the next generation. Some are a mere gathering of cells, already moving in rhythm. Heart cells. We’ve studied this in class. They aren’t developed yet, but when they join, they’ll form the heart muscle.

  Others, in slightly larger containers surrounded by a thick liquid, are all alien-looking with minuscule spines and bulbous heads and tiny blue veins creating roadmaps over their bodies. I use the stylus to jot down what I see on the note screen of my compact. Flipping it to the other side, I’m able to sketch out a quick drawing of a preformed human to add to my notes.

  “Follow me, please. I’ll show you the growth unit.” Micah heads toward the back of the lab and pushes through a dividing door. “Let’s get everyone in here before I explain what you’re seeing.”