by JN Chaney
Metal clanked against the rails, echoing through the station, followed by a veil of dust that seemed to cover everything. It was coming from a set of vents nestled high above the train line. A group of contractors dangled nearby like puppets on strings, shouting and laughing as they worked. One of them kept hitting the side of the vent with his wrench, scattering wave after wave of dust with each loud smack.
Everyone called it the purifying season, though it was hardly a season at all—more like a month of air purification coupled with manual routine maintenance on several of the major systems. The whole process used to only take a week or two, but thanks to recent problems in other parts of the city, including an ongoing quarantine over in the slums, the contractors were spread pretty thin.
Still, the purifying season had its silver lining. Most of the mothers rarely had a chance to meet any men, especially when it came to the contractors and soldiers, who spent the bulk of their time in Central. But with the annual repairs came potential contracts. The season didn’t last very long, so if a mother didn’t pick a sponsor now, it meant she’d have to file for one later through the official channels, and nobody wanted to do that. It might take anywhere from three to six months, all with the possibility of a rejection letter. If a mother met a sponsor in person, it became much easier to persuade him to sign his seed away.
If a mother got lucky enough to land one of the level-9 contractors, a high ranking soldier, or (God-willing) a council member, it could change everything. A contract like that meant prestige and higher living, but more importantly, it meant a seed with a future, not just some other worker in the factories.
Mara always had a knack for the job, picking and choosing the right sponsor for the best contract. All of her children came from the highest quality donors—officers, scientists, and even a council member or two—something many of the other, more inexperienced mothers aspired toward.
But then, everyone had always called her special.
When she was still new to motherhood, the doctors told her about a new birthing standard called Archer’s Genetic Profile. The AGP worked like a points system, ranking genetic traits and compiling them into an overall score. This score not only determined the candidate’s eligibility to become a mother, but also how many children they were allowed to produce. Depending on a woman’s genes, the AGP could give them everything—decent pay and housing, access to Central, and above all, respect. The system functioned solely to keep humanity alive, and the mothers were its lifeblood. They were the only ones allowed to reproduce—a harsh but necessary rule, given the need for genetic diversity.
Mara became a mother when she was fifteen. She still remembered her first time with a sponsor, before she had a grasp on the fundamentals—the expressions of sex and the grinding rhythm of warmth and flesh. The instructors simply told her to lie there because the veteran sponsor would know exactly how it needed to be done. It was his job, after all.
She remembered pain, forceful and unpleasant—nothing like it is now. And there were people watching—scientists with clipboards who claimed it was for the betterment of mankind, rather than what she suspected all along: they wanted a show to re-imagine later when the lights went out.
But now she and the world were both a bit older, and the circumstances had changed for each of them. That scared little girl on the table had since vanished, replaced by someone else—a veteran mother who raised twelve children.
Most of Mara’s boys had gone on to be contractors, while a few others were selected for the medical field. After graduating the academy, the boys underwent an additional four years of schooling, covering anything from engineering, medicine, agriculture, military science, and construction. Afterwards, they were placed into positions that reflected their personal abilities and aptitudes. Each of Mara’s males had displayed impressive results. Her daughters, on the other hand, had all become mothers—the cost of having such wonderful genes.
There was never a choice, not for any of them. Nothing in this world revolved around choice. If the government said a boy would be a contractor, that was the way it went. If the administration wanted a girl to be a mother, she became one. There was no getting around it.
The train arrived, clearing the tunnel of dust as it sent gusts of wind through the platform. Mara climbed aboard, taking a seat near the back. Her apartment would be so empty now that her son was gone. Gone forever, she thought. I doubt I’ll ever see him again. She scoffed at her own arrogance. Why would he even want to see me? I’m horrible.
But maybe it was all for the best. The program was in full effect now, and the children had to do their part.
It had only been eight years since she learned about a new initiative, a different approach to the way people looked at the world. “The city’s falling part, but it doesn’t have to be this way,” Colonel Bishop, then a major, had told her. “We can save our children from all of this. We can make a better world. We just need mothers like you.” At first she embraced the idea. Save the human race—what better calling could a mother have?
But that was then, back before they started using her womb as a glorified incubator for their experiments. Back before the seven stillborn infants they pulled from her body.
And then Terrence. Yes, he was the lucky one, the one who somehow managed to pull through and live. But Mara knew the cost of that—the price her son would pay when he eventually came of age. When he inevitably died, his fate would be the same as the billions who came before—victims of the gas…of Variant.
Mara had so many regrets, but helping Bishop had to be the worst. Despite all the seductive words and promises, all they’d really wanted was a human incubator—something to practice on until they got the formula right. She had gone along with it, believing in the possibility of saving humanity, but after witnessing Variant’s wrath firsthand, such a prospect seemed impossible. After all, being born was one thing. Surviving direct exposure to the most toxic gas on the planet was something else entirely. Could little Terrance actually live through that? Or would he perish like all the rest?
She trembled at the thought.
Mara was forty-two years old, an age when most mothers began to think about their retirement—sneak away from the maternity district to find another, less restricted section of the city where it didn’t matter who a person bedded, whether they matched a certain genetic profile or not, because everyone went there for a reason, and no one wanted to talk about the why.
Maybe that was what she would do someday, when the fineness of her skin had dried itself to lines, and her hair grew thin and lost the shape of youth. Maybe in that distant moment, she could tell stories of a life that wasn’t hers, and the people there would listen and believe it. She’d tell them of a girl who never was a mother, never drowned herself in thoughts of dying boys becoming men.
*******
As usual, the accounts clerk was taking an extended amount of time trying to do what should have taken no time at all, but thanks to the naturally unbiased standardized tests that determined a person’s lot in life, the little fool was stationed at this desk on this day, most likely by the council—at the suggestion of Colonel Bishop, no doubt—to do nothing other than annoy and pester anyone and everyone who walked through the door, namely Mara.
She sighed inwardly as the lanky, bookish man-child swiped desperately on his pad. “How long is this going to take, Mr…?”
“Rolstien, ma’am,” he said, almost hesitantly. “I’ve got your documents right here. Miss Echols, right?”
“Yes, that’s me,” she said, pressing the “Accept” button on her pad. The files loaded instantly.
“Sorry about the wait, Miss Echols,” said the boy.
Obviously new, she thought. He’s probably fresh out of training, maybe even still enrolled. He’ll probably get replaced in a few days. After all, she never encountered the same clerk more than a few times. They eventually got transferred, one after the other. On to bigger and better desks with bigger and better paperwork. What a dull
life, she thought. “Thank you, Mr. Rolstien, I suppose, but try to be a little faster next time, will you?”
“Y-yes ma’am,” he answered. “I’m sorry.”
She turned away, leaving the poor boy with the nagging question of whether or not he pissed off the wrong person. Ah, to be young again.
At the end of the nearby hall lay her destination, the mother’s lounge. It usually teemed with the new inductees, an occasional veteran among them, though that wasn’t always the case. They held the meetings here—discussions and debates over which of them had developed the better method. Naturally, the youngest were the most enthusiastic, never in short supply of smiles and compliments.
Mara took a seat on one of the green chairs. There were several tables, dozens of seats, and a podium. Potted plants were scattered throughout the atrium, brought in from the botanical gardens and maintained by local volunteers—rejected applicants and retirees, mostly. But the plants made the air a little sweeter than it should have been, and most would say they enjoyed it.
The truth was that the lounge was always meant to be elegant, its seats lined with different colors—green, blue, purple, red—hardly a hint of the gray murk that infested the rest of the city. There was a reason the older mothers grew tired of this place—it reminded them of all the things they could never have, an echo of another life outside the closed off silver walls of their hidden metropolis.
The whole thing gave Mara a headache.
“Oh, Mara!” called a voice from across the room. “Happy Mother’s Day! I wasn’t sure you were coming.”
“Hello, Rayne.”
“Bring your documents?” She said as she scurried over.
“Of course.” Mara pushed the pad across the table. “This isn’t my first time, you know.”
“Oh, come on.” She snorted. “You know I’m only teasing.” She took the pad and sorted through its files, her eyes widening a bit as she found the right one. “So…this is him?” She showed the picture to Mara, revealing a smiling young boy with dirty blond hair and green eyes. Short for his age. Quick to learn. Quiet. Her son. “He looks quite handsome, Mara. Oh, you always make the prettiest babies!”
“His name is Terrance,” she said.
“Terrance? That’s a nice name. Was he a good boy? I’m sure he was! Oh, but you’ve still got the girl, too, right? Has she been asking about him? Seems like she would be. Oh, it’s always so hard on them when they’re separated, but that’s the way it works, right? Give them attachments when they’re young so they develop into perfect law-abiding citizens.”
“Was there something you needed, Rayne? I have a bit of a headache right now and—”
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Did you hear about the quarantine? I can’t believe all those poor people died! Honestly, you’d think the contractors could do a better job insulating the city, but I suppose mistakes happen when you’re way out in the slums like that. Imagine living that far from Central. It’s no wonder the maintenance crews barely make it out there.”
“If you say so,” said Mara.
“Anyway, I need to get to my table. Just wanted to swing by and say hello to my old friend.” She giggled and slid the pad back to Mara. “Can you believe it’s already been seven years? Just think, both our boys are finally together, going to school. Isn’t it wonderful? Oh, but I’ll leave you to it. Feel better, okay? And let’s get together sometime soon. It’s been so long.”
She left smiling, heading back to her table. Poor, annoying Rayne. The woman was always so happy—so full of that tiring, high-pitched banter that never seemed to end. She and Mara had been close once, a long time ago before the program.
Back when Mara took the AGP tests, she and several mothers were placed into a special bracket of mothers. Each of these women had scored within the tenth percentile, which meant they had first rights to all sponsors and were allowed to produce as many children as they wanted. Mara scored higher than all the other mothers in her age group. Rayne, who was only a few months younger, scored second. A woman’s AGP score became her shield, her authority. A golden ticket.
A few years later, a young officer named Bishop came to them with a request. When he asked to run his tests, nobody argued. When the injections began, they welcomed them. Embryos, part human and part Variant, became the building blocks of the future. “We’re making a better world,” Bishop told them.
Months later, a group of soldiers and doctors took the mothers to an exclusive wing of the hospital and had several of their eggs extracted. The eggs would be frozen for safekeeping.
“No more babies,” Bishop had explained. “Not until it’s time.”
“Why?” Mara had asked.
“We need you ready at a moment’s notice. You can’t be pregnant when the time comes.”
“How long will it be?”
“Not long,” he had said. “Maybe a year. Two at the most.”
So they waited.
It took three years, but eventually a man came to Mara’s door and told her the day had come at last. Mara and Rayne, along with several other women of varying ages, were brought to the hospital and implanted with the seeds of strangers. They had no idea who the fathers were, nor would they ever know.
Mara’s stomach turned at the memory. Why did it have to be me? She pushed the thought out of her mind.
The lights dimmed after a moment. Mara leaned back in her cushioned chair, trying to relax. The ceremony was about to start. The matron would begin with a standard introduction, which would immediately be followed by opening and closing contracts. Today, Mara would present her closing contract to the others for review. Today, she would tell them about her son. Not everything, of course, because certain things surrounding him were classified, but she would give them the fodder they wanted—tell them stories and reflections of a boy she didn’t really know, couldn’t know—and it would be a lie.
A moment passed, and the matron Ava Long stood before the auditorium of whispering youths. She was eloquent, her silver-lined curls bobbing as she stepped toward the microphone. How long had it been since this woman birthed a child of her own?
“Today we meet again,” Ava said. Her voice was just above a whisper. “Some of you are here for the first time. Others are nearing their last. But here we’ve gathered, not an empty seat among us. All of you with your busy lives and schedules and children, you’ve still found the time to convene together to discuss what really matters…the future of the human race. Because isn’t that why we’re here together now? To bring even more living and breathing people into this world so that things go on? And look at all of you, nearly three hundred, isn’t it? I remember hearing stories from my mother of when there were only sixteen.” She took a breath and smiled. “My, just look at how the world has grown.”
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Chaney posts updates, official art, previews, and other awesome stuff on his website. You can also follow him on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
J. N. Chaney has a Master’s of Fine Arts in Creative Writing and fancies himself quite the Super Mario Bros. fan. When he isn’t writing or gaming, you can find him online at www.jnchaney.com.
He migrates often, but was last seen in Avon Park, FL. Any sightings should be reported, as they are rare.
Check out his dystopian sci-fi series, the Variant Saga.
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