Vagabond (14 page)

I grinned, but I didn’t know if I was supposed to be happy or nervous.
 

At the age of fourteen the Department of Human Relations always sent the notices, but as my birthday came and went, all hope had left. I finally knew. The proof was in.
 

I was a genetic anomaly.
 

So many whispers had grown around me my entire life, and being flagged from the start made me an easy target for gossip. Early on, I accepted I’d never be paired, and the older I got, the better that option felt to me. I’d never have to touch a boy or tear up my body with childbirth. I could focus all my energy on working with the G.E.G. and leave a different kind of legacy— one of scientific discovery.
 

I was completely content with this path until I heard Mama crying in the kitchen one night. Daddy tried to shush her, but she went on and on about Xenon. “But, she ran off and became a Terrorist! She couldn’t contribute, and it made her crazy! What if that happens to Nikomedes? How can we help her? How will she be able to contribute to Humanity?”
 

It was Mama that made the guilt come. I couldn’t put her through that.
 

After that night, I worked harder and studied harder. In Propriety Lessons, I became a model student of stoicism. I promoted the Republic’s cause through my own independent studies in genetics with my experiments in the greenhouse and the labs. I learned the art of modification and generational patience as I bred this flower with that flower. I even rediscovered the color blurple where the blue married with the purple in neon brilliance, and Aeschylus sent the results to the G.E.G. himself.
 

I was determined to show Mama there was more to contribute than just children, and she eventually began to hope for my future again. She came to terms with it as much as I had, until the notice came and turned all of that peace upside down. Instead, Mama was given a new kind of peace— the kind she forgot she was missing.
 

We walked the trail for a few days, but we still ran into no one. We had the moments of silence that happens from being trapped in our own thoughts and the moments of chatter that comes out naturally from being around someone. We conserved water when we didn’t cross any streams, and our water-bladders got emptier and emptier. The peanut butter was half-eaten, and sooner than later we’d only have the granola bars and jerky. I’d been checking my path on the compass to mark our changes each time the trail wandered, but it was time to make our way back to the Tracks. I needed to move on, and I wanted to go west.
   

Despite our depleting supplies, Flea was bouncy, and he had an endless vault of stupid jokes and stories. His innocence took me back to all the places I missed, and his presence crawled all over my skin and dug in deep. He made me like him in spite of myself.
 

He also talked about things I never had. Chocolate and cake— how he got as much as he liked. “My favorite ice cream was buttered pecan,” he explained. The way he described it brought images of the cool before the melt— the burning of the cold.
 

Ice cream was so rare in the 18
^th
, so the fact that he even had a choice of flavors described his life in ways I’m sure he hadn’t meant to. I wondered what Caste he came from? I knew it was high, but that high? Which Colony did he run from? Why? But I couldn’t bring myself to ask.
 

The only flavor I’d ever gotten was vanilla, and the only time I’d ever had it was on Republic Day.
 

Daddy handed me the small cup, and I gasped at the coldness of it. “Where’s yours?” I asked. I knew my eyes were wide as I imagined the sweet flavors that were about to meet my tongue.
 

Mama smiled. “You know this. Only children eight through twelve get a scoop.”
 

“That’s silly, Mama. You should get some too!” The unfairness of it all made my heart freeze. For years, I’d watched the older kids get a scoop on Republic Day, and I envied the way they spooned it in their mouths before it melted.
 

Daddy knelt down. “Honey. You like science, right?”

I nodded.
 

“Well, the real reason for this is our metabolisms are off kilter in the 18
^th
. We have to be more diligent about what goes into our bodies. Every Colony has their little sacrifice they endure for the good of Humanity. One of ours is to moderate our sweets. We do it to protect our bodies so they reach their entire potential. When your Mama and I were eight, we got to eat our fair share. It’s your turn now. You’re old enough to appreciate it.”

“But you’d appreciate it more than I would. You’re old.”

This only made him laugh. “But, we were honored with year twelve. We mastered the art of putting indulgences aside. Since our metabolisms are weaker, we prolong our lives by healthy eating. It’s an honor to refuse what is bad for you, and, one day, you’ll get to practice this honor. Soon enough though. For now, enjoy it.”
 

“But if you wanted a cup?”

“I could have it,” Daddy said. “It’s not like ice cream is illegal. But, why would I risk my health? Why would I set a bad example for others?”

I frowned. The heat was already making the white pool in tiny pockets at the bottom of the equally white cup. I heard somewhere that higher Castes were allowed to eat ice cream all the time, and when Celebrities came into town, they were always given milkshakes during interviews. It didn’t seem fair in that moment that Mama and Daddy weren’t able to even have a tiny scoop. I hated that our Caste made ice cream a luxury that only certain age groups with certain metabolisms were allowed to eat once a year.
 

I took a small bite. It was sweet and sticky on the tongue, but seeing the sideways glance Mama gave me soured it. I knew she worried about the pudge growing into my face. I knew the ice cream was full of sugars and calories not approved for the 18
^th
. I took another bite and felt a euphoric escape. Then I was hit with a different realization. There was a bigger reason our Caste was denied ice cream. We still had to prove ourselves in ways higher Castes did not. We still had to make up for our genetic shortcomings through greater sacrifices. That second bite hadn’t even made a dent in the mound, but it made my gut twist. Sometimes I hated being smart. I discovered secrets about the world I wasn’t supposed to know yet.
 

“Mama. I don’t think I like ice cream,” I lied. It was a lie that tasted better than the ice cream, though, because it meant I’d done something even those in twelfth year had trouble doing. I could be stoic earlier than the others.
 

I nodded at the solider near the trashcan as I threw the rest of my cup away. I couldn’t see her face through the black shield guard, but she nodded in approval.
 

I looked one last time at my full cup tipped on top of all the empties and had a mini ice-cream funeral in my head while Mama’s pride became its own shadow. Daddy swooped me up into a big hug and said, “Let’s go watch the parade my sweet, sweet girl!”
 

Flea also talked about his best friend. Tycho was two years older than him, but they grew up next door to each other. “His name means to hit the mark, and he did. He was in line to become a Celebrity, but chose to join the Militia first.”
 

Flea had given up on pretending he was anything but a Colony-kid, which was an interesting strategy if he was trying to infiltrate the Rebels. People on the Tracks rarely talked about life in the Colonies to strangers. I guess he read me right. I’d spent two years not talking about the Colonies, and it felt good to let it all come out.
 

“I didn’t know Celebrities could do that.”
 

“It actually improves your Caste. It takes years upon years to move up the Celebrity ranks, but joining the Militia moves you up faster. It was strange that we got to be friends though. They handpicked all his others. You know. That nurture the nature philosophy.” Again, Flea neglected to realize what that story revealed about him; he was important enough to be friends with someone of Celebrity status.
 

“Nurture the nature.” I grinned. “I like that description. I get so tired of the debates saying one is more important than the other.”
 

“I know! I always thought the separation of Science and State was stupid. Any idiot can see it takes both to help the Republic. One day, I’d like to see that change.”
 

“One day? You say it like you still have a chance at it.”
 

His face fell. In the beginning, it was easy to forget that I was a Republic fugitive. Flea was learning that our “one days” had changed definitions. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. I was starting to hate his frown. It drew the light out of his eyes, and I felt guilty for hours afterwards.
 

“Tycho held hands with a girl once,” he changed the subject. His voice was hushed, even out here. “He liked a girl named Aspasia. He said she had a crooked smile, and that’s why he thought she was beautiful. They held hands for, like, thirty seconds. That was all. An instructor caught them.”
 

“What happened?” I whispered, already knowing the answer. He didn’t need to tell me that Aspasia was sent to rehabilitation while Tycho got suspended for a week, but Flea was brave and said the words anyways. Tycho was of a higher Caste, and the G.E.G. needed to afford him more mistakes. His genetic line was too valuable to throw it out over an indiscretion, while Aspasia bore the brunt of the punishment.
 

As we reached the train tracks, I thought of the girl. Aspasia meant to welcome or embrace, and it was one of those popular names in my generation. She had the curse of never standing out against all the other Aspasias in the Republic. I’d even known a few Aspasias myself. The most beautiful one was a girl who transferred into our Colony. She looked so different from most of us, and she became an instant favorite despite her sadness. I wondered if it was the same Aspasia that held hands with this Tycho boy? We were a kind Colony and never begrudged her frowns. We were supposed to look the other way as indiscretions were corrected, because Rehabilitation was preferable to Executions. Executions were meant to be stared at straight in the face. Rehabilitation warranted polite indifference and forgiveness because shame did amazing things to a person’s character.
 

Flea and I talked about things we were not supposed to discuss in the Colonies but rarely cared about on the Tracks. Tycho’s story, had I heard it in my old life, wouldn’t have even been a mosquito bite on my conscious. It would have been a warning about what happens when you participate in unsanctioned acts. Out here though, on the Tracks, I felt sorry for Tycho and Aspasia.

But, then again, there was this big picture choreographed by the Genetic Engineering Guild. Even out here, I knew to trust in that. They had their reasons for every genetic choice they made. Choosing a mate for yourself could be dangerous. It could have too many consequences, especially if your genome was of Celebrity status. No matter how much this Tycho liked Aspasia, any relationship between the two could have wiped out an entire Colony with the creation of the wrong genetic mutation.
 

I knew enough of science to know this. I’d seen it happen in my very own flowers. Browns that were supposed to be blues ruining an entire year of research because I thought I knew better… because I “felt” something was right despite all the evidence telling me it wasn’t. I learned to trust science, because process always led to truth when feelings always led to disaster.
 

That was why the Genetic Engineering Guild was so important. They removed the emotion factor, and they helped us defeat extinction by perfecting our genetic code through the propagation of viable genes. Before the G.E.G. and the Department of Human Relations, our race mated in haphazard chaos. We passed along mutations to each other without any thought, then those mutations mutated into cancers and plagues. After the Great Disaster, the lack of diversity made these mutations dangerous and gave us the need to rebuild our genetic defenses, and the G.E.G. saved us all.

Before everything happened, I dreamed of working for the G.E.G. I thought I could at least use the brains I was given to solve a bigger problem. I’d been so idealistic about those dreams and found solace for my imperfections amongst the perfect flowers and experiments I’d learned to create.
 

“Why can’t we just go in and modify the genes in the embryos?” I asked. “Then we wouldn’t need Colonies. It wouldn’t matter who partnered—“

Aeschylus grinned. The year before, he’d agreed to be my advisor for independent research, and I’d been ecstatic. I’d learned that he worked for the G.E.G. before becoming an instructor, and he’d be my best chance of getting an interview one day. Twice a week, he spent three hours with me in the labs chatting through the progress of my projects.
 

He grinned at my question. It was almost a whimsical grin. “There are only certain things we can tweak within the DNA, but it is actually more productive to read everyone’s genetic codes and pair accordingly. It has been more profitable to line up genetic footprints side by side before reproduction happens. True, there is still a level of prediction to it, and sometimes an undesirable offspring is produced, but, for the most part, over the last eighty-two generations, the process has cleared out most detrimental genetic mutations.”
 

Undesirable offspring. Like me. The thought made me frown. Mama and Daddy’s line would end at me, the genetic dead end. “Maybe I could figure out how to do it.” I grinned.
 

“If anyone could do it, it’d be you, my brainiac child. But, before you get too big for your britches, let’s try to learn all sides of the story first. There’s more to genetic perfection than injecting alleles into an embryo before it’s born.”