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Most Travils do not stay with their birthing unit until they are bestowed. More than half are given up at birth, handed directly to the Nit nurses who clean them, feed them, and wait for a Travil to pick them up. Some children last a few years in the home until the Nit and Ou children’s demands become overwhelming. Then the Ou decides it is time for their Travil child to head off to the school full time.
The Ous and Nits remember them in offhanded comments when asked how many children they have produced. “I had two Travil children,” they may say. “When we had our Nit child, the oldest Travil moved to the school. Then we had a pair of Ous and another Travil that went to the school after birth.”
Only the Travil parents remembered Travil children. They are allowed in the Travil school at any time. They randomly sit in on lessons when their other children do not need them. They even bring their Travil children back to their birthing house if the Nits and Ous went on vacation without their Travil unit. It is essential for the Travil parent to bond with their Travil children; after all, the Travil parent will help their Travil children with their own births.
I was the oldest child in my birthing unit. Until I was three, I would spend the day with my Nit as she tried to start her store or have my Ou carry me through town, high on his shoulders. They dressed me in the Nit’s one-piece pantsuit I preferred and allowed me to keep my hair short. I was young and their only child, so the pampering was overlooked.
After I turned three, I was required to attend four hours of nursery training each day. My Travil would force me to wear the long open dresses required of all Travil. I also had to grow my hair. I was brought to the school and put in a room full of other Travil children and many dolls. The children would pick up their favorite dolls and change their diapers and clothes during the entire play session. They would take their dolls on playdates with other Travil children’s dolls. They would put them down for naps in the play beds or put their doll under their shirt and pretend to be carrying the child for their birthing unit.
The children would argue about how many children they would birth. After proudly proclaiming that they would have a hundred bazillion zillion, they would turn and ask me how many I would have.
“No, thank you,” I responded.
One day, Netli, a Travil with curly red hair already hanging down to their lower back, insisted that I must have children. I walked away and picked up two dolls, trying to see what the other children saw in them. Netli found me and insisted again. I picked up the dolls and threw them across the room. All the children in the room burst into tears when the doll’s ceramic heads smashed into pieces.
When my Travil came to pick me up, the instructors, all elderly Travil past their child-bearing years and already having helped with their grandchildren, begged my Travil parent to have me board at the school.
My Travil was nearly due with the birthing unit’s second child, so when they declined, the elderly Travils didn’t push too hard. They assumed I would be in their care full-time after the child was born.
Less than a month later, the mandatory nursery class had ended, and my Travil was not waiting for me. My teachers put me in line with the other Travil children. We marched to the dining hall, where we sat on long benches and ate the food given to us. There were no extra treats or funny stories. We sat in quiet. After the Travil nurses took our plates, they led us to the entertainment room where a cartoon Travil taught the Travil children about the adventure of raising children.
While the children laughed and clapped, I went into the corner of the room and cried.
I was being forced into the school’s scratchy pajamas when one of the Travil teachers came and retrieved me. My Nit was standing at the front of the school. She had come to tell me all about the birth of my Travil sibling and bring me home.
At six, I started attending training full-time. My Travil parent would place my Travil sibling in their shoulder wrap and march me up to the school with a handful of other Travil parents and children.
At school, the other children teased me constantly. I was the only non-boarded child with a sibling. I never once complained, too afraid that my birthing unit would decide it would be better to move into the school. I was seven years old when I noticed the signs of pregnancy in my Travil, all learned from my early class education.
My sibling started nursery school.
My Nit had finally opened her store.
My Ou was promoted to lead builder.
Even I understood that three children would be a lot for my Travil unit.
I tried to help out as best I could. I started reviewing the accounting books my Nit brought home from the store. At first, the numbers did not make sense, but I borrowed some of her books and taught myself what I could. Once I could balance her books, I began to sneak in and read over my Ou’s project expenditures. They were not all that much different. I found myself writing him notes, guiding him on how best to proceed with his project’s finances. I then snuck my Ous books and taught myself the basics of building. I began to leave notes for him on the best way to run his project. My logic seemed sound to my seven-year-old self. If I helped them with their job, they would have more time to help the Travil with the babies.
Eventually, my Nit began to leave the store information on her desk when she came home. I would grab everything and take it into the closet of the room I shared with my Travil sibling. I would balance her books and make recommendations for orders. I would find other sheets hidden in the pages, ones with logic or random math problems. I would do these also, in case they were important. At times, there would be books in the stack. Some books taught math and science that I did not return for a few days. Other books were about people who never lived. Those I would stay up all night reading.
I was not quite eight when the new child was born, an Ou. I was the last child my age who was not a boarder at my school. I cried the night he was born and all the next day at school. I tried to prepare myself for the benches and lousy entertainment. I tried to picture myself learning about children and pregnancy and keeping house for the rest of my days. I tried not to think about the math and science books. I tried not to think about the stories. I would have to be happy with my school’s books, which showed Nit, Ou, and Travil anatomy. The ones who told the story of the happy Travil who grew up in school and were then bestowed to a matted couple they had never met and went on to have a dozen children. All the time, they smiled, delighted with their life.
But when the bell ended, my Nit was there to pick my sibling and me up, much to the school’s disappointment.
That night, it was my Travil sibling’s turn to cry and cry. They thought they would finally be allowed to live in the school with all their friends. The next day, my sibling stayed at school, but my Travil brought me home.
There were three more children. One Nit child when I was nine years old. One more Ou child when I was eleven years old. Lastly, one more Travil child when I was twelve years old.
When I turned 16, I was in my last year of schooling. Students were already being selected for bestowal. I stopped combing my hair or washing my face. I put on dresses that were not washed. When the mated pairs came to choose their Travil, they would turn away from me in disgust. The teachers called my birthing unit to complain about my hygiene. The teachers gave me demerit after demerit. My behavior continued.
At the end of the year, more than half of my peers had been bestowed. Those who had not been picked stayed to help at the school until they were selected. Much to the dismay of the entire community, I stayed home.
The first day after graduation, my Nit brought me to her store. I helped stock shelves and worked on inventory. I dusted and cleaned the window, picking up a vase with a single purple glass Turpan flower. It seemed out of place on the otherwise empty window seal. The store stayed empty. The next day and the day after, I stayed in the back room of the store. I worked on books and inventory, much like I had done for years. Gradually, the shoppers returned to the store, happy to pretend I was not there.
A month later, my Nit handed me a list and asked me to go to a supply store. When I walked across the main town center, the security Ous scowled at me. The Nits avoided me. The Travil held onto their children and loudly told them what an abomination I was. I don’t know who threw the pebbles. I just felt one strike my side, then another. I kept walking, afraid, but more afraid to show my fear. The stones stopped hitting me as I neared the store. I reached to open the door, but before I could grasp the handle, it opened seemingly independently. The shopkeeper appeared and stood in front of the door. She did not say anything and did not move. I held my head low, ensuring my eyes were trained on the ground. Then I held up the note, not too close to her face. “My Nit asked me to help our household,” I mumbled.
The shopkeeper dressed in the traditional one-piece suit, the coloring bright orange like the sun. It was an extravagant choice for a Nit to wear. Nits were given some leeway in their outfit’s hue, but most chose to stay with the more traditional dark coloring. Travil were required to wear only white or cream-colored skirts draping right above our ankles. While I waited, I imagined walking around in such bright clothing. I imagined owning my own store and having the right to deny someone to enter. I waited unmoving until the Nit grabbed my list, ripped it in half, and placed it back in my outreached finger. I mumbled thanks and headed back to my Nit’s store. I could feel everyone in the square staring at me, but I was grateful that no one struck or spoke to me.
When I arrived at my Nit’s store, I handed her the ripped note and returned to the back room. I tried to focus on the ordering. When I couldn’t, I tried to read my current math book. My mind kept returning to the feel of the pebbles hitting me, the jeers of the Ous, and the judgment of the Travil. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and my breath was rapid. I tried to calm myself down, but I mostly wished I could be normal.
My Nit did not speak of the incident at our evening meal. I retired to my room, as was my custom. Except instead of studying, I went straight to bed, hoping to get this day over with.
The next day, I went back to work with my Nit. I was happy to return to my routine until my Nit walked up to my desk, holding another list. I hurriedly moved the advanced building text, hoping she had yet to see it. She waited for me to take the list and stand up. As I moved to the door, she followed. She paused long enough to lock her door and then walked beside me. I followed the same path as the day before, although there were no pebbles or mocking this time. Instead, everyone stopped and watched us move on our way.
When we reached the shop, the same shopkeeper stood before her door. She wore a rich purple outfit, nearly as bright as her clothes from the day before. When I paused, my Nit kept walking. She raised her hand to her forehead in the traditional Nit greeting and started speaking.
“Good Midday to you, Takil. I hope that your children are well.”
“They are. My children are with their Travil unit at the moment.” At this, the Nit glanced at me.
“Have you met my child, Takil? They have not been selected for bestowal yet. Until they are selected, they are attending to my store running errands for the household, as is the responsibility of Travil without children to care for.”
Even I knew that this was stretching the role of a Travil. Travil who were allowed to run errands were usually old, or at least past childbearing age.
“It is not proper,” Takil said.
“The situation is unique, but I would not dishonor my child by refusing to allow them to help the household.”
“They should be up at the school.”
“It is the tradition for our Travil children to board there, but it is not required. As you know, my child was not exceptionally skilled at childbearing as a Travil should be. We are concerned that they will never be selected and decided to keep them home.”
“I heard they were the first Travil in three generations to cause harm to their training child, and I remember the incident with the doll.”
“Exactly. Would you and your mate have picked them for your bonding unit?”
“We most certainly would not.”
“That is our concern also. Yet, having no role in the community would not be productive for our child. So, we decided to keep them in our household to help out. As you know, our Travil had two other Travil children. They are busy at the school with our youngest and helping the middle Travil child with their new family. Having our eldest to help with household needs is beneficial.”
I stood to the side with my head lowered. I did not move through the conversation, but I heard every word. I found myself being both grateful for my Nit advocating for me to have a role that did not involve children and ashamed at the burden that I must be to my family. To show any deviation from a traditional Travil part would mean my death and the death of those involved. Yet, as my Nit had so aptly put, I was the worst Travil in generations. In my heart, I knew that I was not a Travil. Yet I wasn’t a Nit or an Ou either. I was something else, something outside our system. I couldn’t help the shame that if my Nit knew, she would be handing me off to the security Ous, not advocating for me to have a place as a Travil.
Takil finally took the list from my outstretched hand.
“I cannot speak for every shopkeeper. However, they may do as the other Travils. They must come in the side entrance, never the front, and will wait quietly for me to finish with my customers. Then I will help them. Everyone must have a role, but I don’t much appreciate that their role has to infringe on my business.”
“Of course, Takil. We completely understand.” Then my Nit turned and walked around to the side entrance. I turned and tried to hurry after her. We watched Takil return to her store and help the one customer in there. She made a point of taking an extremely long time talking to her.
“I think you have this now,” my Nit said. Then she turned and walked out of the store.
I waited nearly a quarter day before Takil finally put the items and the invoice in my hand. Since then, it had gotten faster. The shopkeepers always made me wait as long as possible, but they were busy and eventually sent me back to our shop. Little did they know that I was also the one that paid them. The ones that served me faster, I paid quickly. Those who made me wait all day were only paid once I could no longer hold off. Ultimately, it meant nothing, but I still did it.
After the second visit with Takil, my Ou instructed me to follow him before our evening meal. He let me into the basement, his private space. He showed me the exercise equipment and how to use it. He taught me how to defend myself if someone tried to hurt me. I practiced with him for a time, and then he handed me a key to the room. I continued to train on my own.
The days continued. My siblings left the house. The oldest Ou was working with our Ou as a low-level builder. He had a bonding unit with a Nit and Travil child. He had sent the Travil child to the school straight after birth, a point he told my bonding unit loudly whenever he visited. My Nit sibling was mated but was holding off on a bonding unit to focus on work and each other. My youngest Ou sibling was unmated and was working on an advanced degree. He did not visit often, but when he did, he always left behind the textbooks of courses he finished. Occasionally, I would see my Travil siblings around the town. They both refused to acknowledge that we were related. The oldest had nine children, and the youngest had birthed three already.
I had seen 27 years and was the oldest unbestowed Travil in our town’s history. I was happy with my life. I ran errands and kept my Nit’s store. At home, I tried to help around the house, although often, I caused more problems than helped. I was happy. I thought I was safe.
Perhaps I became too accepted. Maybe that is why the mated Nit and Ou walked into our household and informed our birthing unit that I would be their Travil. They came during the evening meal. I saw them invited in, curious why they would be at our house. Then I heard their claim. I listened to my Ou try to dissuade them. They were outraged, rightfully so. It was their choice, and my Ou had no right to question their decision. I had no right to question their decision. Still, I appreciated my Ou trying.
After the bonded pair left our house, I excused myself and went to my room. I tried to keep my crying quiet, hoping my birthing unit would mistake my actions for joy.
Tomorrow, I would be bestowed. I would join a pair mated for over fifteen years before they decided to have offspring. I would be their third, required to join the Nit’s egg and the Ou’s sperm and grow a child within me. Then, I would be required to do it again as often as they wished. I would be required to care for the offspring.
My purpose in life has always been to care for offspring. I had been told that since I was very young, but it never felt like a happy thing to me. Yet, if I refused, I would die.
No Travil refused. It is our purpose. My classmates had looked to this point joyfully, imagining all they would do for their offspring.
I just wanted to cry. When the tears had dried up, I sat wondering if maybe death was preferred. I wouldn’t wait for the security Ous to sentence me. I would do it on my own.
There was a knock at my door. My Nit entered. She thankfully did not appear to notice my face puffed up from crying.
“There is time,” she said. “Let’s spend the morning at the store.”
I was surprised that the sun had risen, and I had spent the entire night crying. I put on a fresh Travil outfit. My Nit stayed in the room with me. Not many Nits and Ous saw their Travil children on their bestowal day.
I checked my face in the mirror to make sure that others could not tell I had been crying. My Nit looked up at me, and for the first time, I realized we were not much different. We both had slender builds. My chest was slightly larger but had always been small for a Travil. My hair hung down to my waist, as was customary for a Travil. My Nit’s hair was cut to her shoulders, as was expected.
I spent the morning at the store creating a year-long plan for my Nit. It was a template she could follow. My greatest hope was that the store would survive. I laid out variations for different situations trying to make it as flexible and easy to follow as possible. It would not cover everything, but maybe it would be enough.
I was finished by the time that midday hit. My Nit closed the store, and I said goodbye. No matter what happened next, I would never be seeing the store again.
When we reached our dwelling, I walked to my room to change. There were two outfits laid out on my bed. One was a traditional bestowal gown. The other was one of my Nit’s outfits. I walked up to it and tentatively reached down to grab it. I held it up, examining it. It was different from the flowing material that I was required to wear. It was a tight one-piece suit with material that clung to each leg. It was made to complement Nits’ flat build, to accentuate the slenderness of both shoulders and hips. The material was strong and flexible, to move with the Nit as they did whatever procedural role they had chosen.
I held the outfit in front of my body and examined myself in the mirror. My chest would show, but my build was not far off. I lacked the hips necessary for a Travil to birth lots of healthy children.
There was movement behind me in the mirror, and I looked to see my Ou standing in my doorway. I dropped my Nit’s clothing and backed away.
“The choice is yours,” he said. “We will help you the best we can, either way.”
It was then that I realized that my life was not a secret, at least not in this dwelling. My birthing unit had known and supported me the best that they could. I stood frozen, reliving my life with this knowledge. It was apparent that they knew and that we all had just pretended too afraid to address how different I was. I had always felt an abnormally strong connection to my birthing unit, but standing there, I knew how lucky I was. I realized how much I was going to lose. No matter what I chose, I would have to leave them and the safety they had given me.
I picked back up my Nit’s outfit.
He nodded, no hint of surprise on his face. Then he handed me a band of tight material.
“Put this under. It will help.”
I took the material and held it, uncertain. I looked at my Ou and saw his embarrassment. It was then I understood. It was to help flatten my chest, the area of my body reserved for my children. I nodded my understanding.
He leaned over and placed a kiss on my cheek, an unheard-of expression of devotion for a Travil child, then he turned around and left me.
I dressed. The material flattened my chest and made it difficult to breathe, but it worked. I was not completely flat, and my hips were not completely straight, but looking in the mirror, I did not recognize who was looking back at me. I was no longer a Travil. I was me, or at least as close as I had ever been.
My hand reached for the hair flowing down my back. Only Travil wore their hair long. It was not practical for the long strands to hang down and get in the way while a Nit or Ou was productive.
I had always hated my hair, and the thought of it going filled me with unexpected joy. I looked around for something sharp. I moved to the grooming area that I shared with my Travil. Of course, there was nothing. I turned to leave and found my Travil entering the room with a pair of scissors in their hand.
I watched them, uncertain of how they would feel. I was their child, one of the three that they could keep past adulthood, and I was now dressed as a Nit. I was turning away from everything that they loved, all the hopes and ambitions they had. I felt sad, and then I felt even more miserable when I realized that I would not make a different decision. I could not. I had never been a Travil.
They didn’t speak. They motioned me to turn around so that my back faced them. Then they picked up the scissors and cut off my silky brown hair. In less than a minute, my hair was gone, clipped clear up to my shoulders.
They used their hands to turn me around, and I saw that they were holding back tears. My Travil gathered me in their arms and held on tight.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“All I have ever wanted was you to be safe,” they said. Then my Travil turned around and left me.
There was not much time before the mated pair would arrive. I needed to leave.
I went back to my room, uncertain about what to bring or where to go. When I entered, I found my Nit sitting on my bed.
“It won’t be easy,” she said. “If we could keep you here, we would, but it is no longer safe for you.”
“How long have you known?” I asked.
“We have always known,” she said. “We have been preparing for this day for a long time. We have been hoping that it never had to happen. There are others like you, others who are born one way but are truly another. They have been guiding us since we found them when you were in the early grades. They told us to keep you here as long as we could, that it would be safer for you. We knew it was hard for you having to pretend, but we made it as easy as we could. But now you must go.”
She stood and handed me a pin. It was a purple Turpan flower, a flower so rare that it was said to be priceless. The same flower that stood on the windowsill of the shop.
“Travel to Erriwald. Put on the pin and order a meal. Someone will help you. If no one shows, get a room and try again the next day. If no one shows in three days, leave and go somewhere else. Try to start a new life on your own. There are new papers in the bag. Keep looking for the symbol. That is how you will find others. Be careful and be discreet.”
I looked at the pin. My birthing unit had not just been helping me. They had put themselves out to help others like me. I wondered how many people had entered the shop because of the flower. I wished they had told me sooner. I wish I had known that I was not alone. I had so many questions, but there was no longer time to ask. There was a knock at the front door.
My Nit put her hands on my shoulders. Tears were falling freely down her face. I felt myself starting to cry and tried to stop. If I lost control now, I would never be able to finish. She handed me a bag and walked away.
“We will distract them, but you won’t have long. Slip out the window and don’t be seen.”
Then she was gone, and I was all alone.
I put the pack on my back and quietly opened my window. I lived on the bottom floor of the house, so it was not a long drop. When my feet hit the ground, I heard voices. They were coming to my room. They were pretending to present me to them. I did not even take the time to shut the window. I began to run then thought better of it. If I ran, I would bring attention to myself. If I walked calmly, no one would have reason to suspect I was me. It would not cross most people’s minds that you could be something other than what you were born.
I made it through our housing area and into town. I went unnoticed. There were no second glances. There were no jokes from the guard or tears from the children. I was just a Nit going about my business, and Nits had a right to do that. I still kept my head down, not uncommon for a Nit. After all, I was not presenting myself as an Ou. I would feel safer when I was out of our town, away from someone who might recognize me from the store.
I watched the Ous and the Nits and realized that I had taken off one costume to put on another. I was not a Nit any more than I was an Ou or a Travil. I was none, or maybe I was all, but this costume was a lot less confining.
MARTHA IS THE ONLY human left on earth. ARC told her so. When she is seventeen, she will save the human race; she will become the mother of all humanity. That’s what ARC has told her. There are only two more lights out until she is seventeen.
Martha’s world is white walls and clean lines. She wakes each day to the bright light of ARC, hovering over her bed and playing what ARC has told her is bird song. She likes it; it’s a nice way to wake up. Then she unfurls her body from the soft, paper-white sheets and scoots off the edge of her bed, feet dangling inches above the gleaming tiled floor.
Five steps to the bathroom where she relieves herself, she barely notices the small robotic arm that retracts back with her sample anymore. Then seven small steps and she is in front of the wardrobe. Martha is naked, as usual after lights out has finished. Her body has changed so much over the last few weeks, but ARC reassures her that this is normal. Her skin is a map of thin pink lines where she has grown so fast and so wonderfully. Martha peers down at them.
Then she is pulling back the wardrobe door and stepping into grey leggings and a grey long-sleeve top. Only two more lights out until she will save the world. Just two. She thinks on this as she sits down to meal one, holding out her arm for the blood pressure monitor and opening her mouth for the thermometer. There is a small prick on her outstretched finger; a droplet of scarlet blood blooms.
Martha watches ARC make a note of the readings, then a bowl of steaming porridge appears from a slot in the wall next to the table. It’s topped with pumpkin seeds and chai seeds; a whirl of golden honey glistens on the creamy surface. She picks up the spoon that awaits her and tucks in. Martha is always hungry after the lights out time has passed.
“Tell me about the people again, ARC,” Martha calls out to the white walls, and a screen appears suspended in front of her.
Images flash by and Martha knows them by heart. She mouths the words as a voice with no body tells her about the creators of ARC, about all the men and women who lost their lives in the Last War.
“Millions dead, humanity at the end of its existence—Abraham and Olivia Kenwell were commissioned by the world leaders to preserve humanity from itself. And so the Automated Repopulation Centre, or ARC for short, was born.”
A light flashes above the screen and the images pause. Martha scoops the last dregs of porridge into her mouth and gets up. The bowl is retracted and a bottle of water appears in its place. Martha takes it, undoing the lid with a little crack as the seal breaks. The water is cold in comparison to the hot porridge, and it makes her chest feel strange.
Lights flash on the floor and Martha follows them down the long white corridor. She doesn’t need to look at them anymore, as her feet know the way without her head. Instead, she clicks her fingers and the voice continues to tell her about Abraham and Olivia, about their daughter: Isabella. Martha has the same ash blonde hair as Isabella, that much she knows. But there are no mirrors in ARC. She has always wondered if they have the same face.
“After the death of Isabella, the couple made it their life’s work to make sure that no other parent would have to go through what they went through. Life would carry on, no matter what humanity did to itself. ARC would make sure of that.”
And so will I, Martha thinks to herself as she turns into the library. Here she clicks her fingers once more and sits down at the desk in the centre of the room. A curved screen flicks up in front of her and a woman with greying hair and bright red glasses beams down at her.
“Good morning, Martha.” She smiles. “And how are you today?”
“I am well thank you, ARC,” Martha replies, folding one leg underneath herself.
“I am pleased to hear it. Your body function results are good. Only two more lights out, Martha.”
Martha peers up at the giant woman on the screen above her. She can see the lines around her eyes, the whiteness of her teeth as she smiles, almost as white as the walls of the Centre. Her mind wanders as ARC starts the lesson. Two more lights out. The time cannot go fast enough. Martha measures the time in blocks. First, there is meal one. Then lesson one: books and reading and general knowledge—she must be intelligent if she is to be the mother of all humanity. Then it is meal two. After this, there is exercise. Her body must be fit and healthy to carry the seed when it is ready. Finally, meal three, and after this is the time Martha longs for.
After meal three, she is allowed Free Time. This is the only time ARC is quiet. The only time she feels alone and unwatched. Another blood pressure test, another urine sample, and another thermometer and she can please herself. Her feet take her to the place she always goes, away from the sterile white of the Centre walls and the artificial light.
The biodome is full of green, every shade from lime to emerald. Martha loves the smell of earth and life. Here she loses herself in the swathes of ferns and towering sunflowers; she breathes in the blossoming jasmine and cups the soft petals of peach-coloured roses.
In the biodome, she can see the stars: the tiny pinpricks of light that bleed into the inky darkness. During lights out there are no stars, everything is just black and still. Out here her world moves. Nothing is clean and sterile and straight. Nature has no lines, just waves and curls and spirals.
Martha lies on the ground, her fair hair fanning out beneath her as she always does. Yet during this Free Time, she sees something she has never seen before. She sits up and stares.
The boy is standing at the edge of the biodome, where the white arc of the Centre is covered with ivy and moss and climbing, lilac-coloured wisteria. She has never seen another human before. She is the last human on earth. ARC told her so.
Martha opens her mouth to scream. She is the only one left. He cannot be here. But the boy quickly raises a finger to his lips. His eyes are wild and desperate, and Martha feels like they can see all the way into her soul. A soul is something ARC told her many people used to believe in; it’s the thing inside you that connects you with God. It’s the part of you that lives on after you die. Martha is sure he can see into hers.
His hair flops over his face on one side, and it is the same mixture of blonde and ash that hers is. The boy lifts one hand and beckons her towards him. Martha does not move. Her legs won’t let her even if she wanted to. Instead, she looks at him as if he is a wild animal—a wolf out of one of the stories that ARC reads to her. A creature that might tear her limb from limb. That can never happen. She is important. But his eyes plead and she gets up.
“Martha,” he calls. “Martha, come here.”
Slowly, Martha puts one foot in front of the other. The plants and shrubs that once made her feel free are now closing in on her, trapping her here with this human where there should be none—just her. She stops a metre from him, close enough to see the details of his clothes: the strange symbols on his t-shirt and the heavy boots on his feet. Martha never wears shoes.
“How are you here?” Martha asks, fingers pulling at the sleeve of her top. She is bare. The thin material of her clothes seems inadequate under his gaze.
“It doesn’t matter. You just need to know that I am.” The boy pauses. “And my name is Oscar.”
“But ARC told me ...” The words stick in Martha’s throat, and she is suddenly very thirsty.
“ARC lied to you.”
Martha shakes her head. ARC has no reason to lie. ARC is here to save humanity. She is here to save humanity. They are both here to do good, so why would ARC lie about that? Martha has watched the images of humanity before ARC, she has seen the way they hurt each other, the way they shed blood like water.
“I don’t believe you. ARC cares for me. You are the liar.” Martha folds her arms over her chest. “I am the only human left.”
It is the boy’s turn to shake his head. He reaches out for her and then lets his hands drop to his side once more. His eyes fix on hers, and Martha struggles to hold his stare. Oscar’s eyes are so blue they remind her of the photos of Mediterranean seas ARC showed her once.
“Martha, we don’t have much time left. You just have to trust me,” he pushes. “How many lights out left?”
“Two,” Martha manages to say. Beneath her skin heat is rising, her chest tightens. She can feel her pulse under the soft skin of her neck and raises a finger to touch it.
“It’s okay, Martha. I want to help you, but you need to help me first,” Oscar begins, but the gentle tones of ARC cut across him.
“Martha? It’s time for lights out. Tomorrow will be the eve of something beautiful. Your moment has come. Where are you, Martha?” says ARC.
“Come back tomorrow,” Oscar mouths.
“I am here, ARC,” replies Martha, taking a step towards the voice. Then she pauses, turning to glance back at the boy, but he is gone. She notes that there are no footprints left behind as if Oscar were a phantom.
As Martha walks the long, bleached corridors of the Centre to her sleep pod, she can’t help but think about Oscar. Whilst she brushes her teeth, she wonders if he was a figment of her imagination, and as she settles herself down under the freshly laundered sheets, she decides that he has piqued her curiosity enough that she will go back to that spot under the creeping wisteria. She has a plan.
*
MARTHA STRUGGLES TO sit still while ARC takes her readings the next morning. She pushes the porridge around the bowl, sinking the seeds into the thick slop. She cannot keep her mind away from Oscar.
“One more lights out, Martha,” says ARC as it clears away the half-eaten bowl. “Your body function tests are good. Are you not hungry?”
“I am just excited about tomorrow,” Martha lies. It is the first lie she has ever told, and she wonders if it will be the last. There was something about the way Oscar’s eyes pleaded with her during Free Time that she cannot shake. He was in her dreams, in that blurry bit between the end of lights out and waking. She could almost touch him.
Martha struggles through ARC’s teaching. This time, it is about the seed, about how Martha will be put into an early lights out, and then the seed will be placed inside her—inside her womb. She rolls the new word around and around in her mind: womb, womb, womb. Her lips form each sound until it becomes strange to her ears. By the time she gets to second meal, not even her fingers can keep still. She still has exercise to get through.
She rushes through third meal, swallowing as quickly as she can, stretching out her arm so that her tests can be done as she eats.
“I am just so excited,” she tells ARC, lying again. “Can I go for Free Time now? I need to unwind.”
Martha forces her feet to walk, though they want to run, to skip down the corridors to the biodome. Inside, she lets herself go, crushing the delicate plants beneath her feet where, only the Free Time before, she trod ever so carefully.
“Oscar?” she whispers. Bubbles rise in her stomach as he emerges from the dark green cover. She reaches out to touch him, but he holds himself back. His eyes look sad.
“I’m so pleased you came,” he says, smiling at her, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I need you to do something for me.”
“Wait,” interrupts Martha. “Come and meet ARC. If it knows there is another human, then that changes everything!”
Martha can’t keep her excitement in. It’s like butterflies in her stomach, and she can’t keep her feet still. They churn up the earth, the smell of it wafting up to greet her.
“If ARC knows, then you can come and live here with me. You can help with the seed. We can do it together. I am going to be the mother of all humanity. But it is lonely.” Martha pauses to breathe. “Come on!”
“Martha, I can’t. ARC can’t know. I can’t leave this spot. But I need you to do something for me. I need you to open the door,” Oscar tells her. He folds his arms across his chest.
“The door? But you’re already here.”
“There are others, and we need to come in so we can save you.” Oscar runs a hand through his hair. Martha thinks he must be about her age. She wonders what it would be like to run her fingers through his hair. She wonders what he smells like. All she can smell are the plants and the soil.
“It’s dangerous outside. That is why I am in here. Safe with ARC,” she answers. “Come and meet ARC.”
She reaches for his hand, and Oscar tries to move away, but he doesn’t quite manage it. Martha’s fingers slip through his arm as if he were made of air. Her hand goes to her mouth, and she shakes her head.
“No,” she mouths. “No.”
“Martha, please. I am real. I am here. Please.” Oscar’s voice trails after her. There is pain in it as he tries to call her back without raising ARC’s attention. His whisper is so much more deafening than any shout. But she runs. She cannot look at him anymore. He was the liar. He was a trick. Yet he looked so real and moved like the people she had seen on the screen. His chest rose and fell as he breathed in the oxygen around them, hadn’t it?
Martha’s footsteps slow as she reaches the edge of the biodome. She turns. He is still standing there, watching her, but the whole shape of him is deflated. It reminds her of a balloon ARC had once shown her images of. She falters for a moment. He mouths her name and presses his hands together as if praying before he drops to his knees.
Martha stands before him once more as he looks up at her. He slowly gets to his feet, brushing imaginary dirt from his knees. She doesn’t know where he is or what he is, but he is different. He is intelligent, and he looks human. If she isn’t alone ... If there is something in what he has to say, then she wants to know more.
“Where is the door?” she asks him.
***
MARTHA KNOWS SHE HASN’T got long before ARC calls lights out. She can feel the time slipping by. It has never felt like this before. Every section of time has passed in the way it is supposed to, ordered and planned. But now she is soaring off course, stepping away from the set path that has ruled everything between waking and lights out.
The door is at the end of yet another long corridor, one she has never been down before. She has never needed to, as it has never been part of her regime. Oscar has given her the code for the door. It changes every hour, so she has to walk quickly, but not so quickly that ARC will notice.
Martha reaches the door. It is the only one in the Centre. It is only her and ARC, so there has never been a need for a door. But here is one. Beside it is the keypad that Oscar told her about. Green and red numbers shine out at her as she forces her fingers to stop shaking.
Nine. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Zero. Zero.
“What are you doing, Martha?” ARC’s voice stops her. She is one digit away from entering the full code. Her finger hovers over the number one.
Martha turns to face the empty tunnel. She would feel more powerful if she had someone to look at, someone to shout at, but there is nothing—ARC is all around, ARC is a safe haven, outside there is just death and destruction. Outside there is Oscar.
“Martha, what are you doing?” repeats ARC. Its voice is different. It sends a shiver down Martha’s spine like needles.
“I am not alone.” Martha stands up straight, her voice more confident than she feels. Inside she is trembling.
“You are the last human on earth, Martha. You will be the mother of all humanity. It is lights out now. Tomorrow is so special,” ARC tells her.
When Martha feels the prick of a needle on her foot, she knows she is already too late. The darkness starts at the edges of her vision, slowly creeping in until the last thing she sees is the flashing keypad next to the only door in the whole of the Centre.
***
OSCAR PLACES THE VR goggles back in his bag and slings it onto his back. He is no longer the seventeen-year-old boy he seems when speaking to Martha. His jaw is square, and a beard flecked with copper covers his chin. There are two others with him, just as there have been every time he speaks to the girl.
A man and a woman wait in the deep, dark, night. His skin puckers as he signals for them to make their way to their entrance into the ARC compound. There is a gap in the mile-high, barbed-wire fence, near one of the incinerator vents. Oscar has learnt not to hope, not to hold his breath as they sit waiting by the vent to be let in. Maybe this Martha will be different? Over the years, he has honed his words down to the ones that make her listen, the ones that set in quickly and make her doubt ARC.
As he yanks his bag off his back and squats down to push his way through the gap in the fence, he can feel the sharp corners of the photograph in his pocket. It has moulded itself to the shape of his body, but sometimes, when his senses are heightened, he can still feel it. Like now.
The three of them wait in the blackness. The incinerator hasn’t fired up so that is a good sign. But Martha hasn’t opened the door either. The one door in the whole of the Centre that doesn’t lead directly into the government facilities ARC is attached to. The government facility who stole hundreds of thousands of frozen embryos for their “end of the world” experiment. The world never ended. The Last war had been painful, bloody, and long, but like all things it too had passed.
Oscar’s legs cramp. He shifts his weight and pulls out the photo that digs into his thigh. There is a girl and an older boy, laughing and smiling up at him. One of them is Martha or, as she was known before all this, before she died, Isabella. The boy is himself, Oscar. He doesn’t look at the photo very often, but it never leaves his pocket. He sees Isabella so often but it isn’t her—not really. It is Martha, and Martha is different.
The morning light seeps through the covering of leaves that hides the three saboteurs. Oscar hasn’t slept or eaten all night. The one door never opened. Martha either changed her mind or never found the door. Or, worse, ARC found her. Oscar winces as he pushes himself to his feet. They are numb and full of needles as they come back to life. The other two look at him for direction and he shakes his head.
“We come back tomorrow night. I’ll speak to her again. She might survive,” Oscar tells them, and they nod.
The three of them inch their way back to their entrance and shuffle through the gap in the wire. The walk back to their camp is quiet, their footsteps on the leafy floor the only noise in the still woodland.
Oscar thinks of his parents, of the things stolen from them: Isabella first, then himself when he joined the fighting, and their research on cloning and reproduction. They had seen the problems with ARC and had been in the process of destroying it when the government intervened. “For the good of the nation” they had told the Kenwells as they pulled files and memory sticks from the flames.
Oscar had returned to find his parents had filled their pockets with rocks and walked into the sea hand-in-hand when they heard he was lost in action. The government had made a mistake; they had sent officers to the wrong house, to the wrong Mr and Mrs Kenwell. He was never sure how much of a mistake it had been. The knowledge of ARC had died with his parents. The government had everything now.
Oscar returns to the ARC compound for the next three nights, donning his VR goggles and lurking by the incinerator vent. But he doesn’t see Martha again.
On the fourth night, as he lifts his bag onto his shoulders, Oscar hears the roar of the incinerator, smells the burning flesh. It didn’t work yet again. The stolen embryo was rejected by Martha’s body. It either grew too fast, bursting through Martha’s skin, or it didn’t grow at all, rotting inside her, poisoning her from within.
ARC is clever. It knows success or failure within days. But for all the scientists the government has working on this hideous thing, they cannot work out how to create life. They continue to pump out clone after clone of his sister, each one just like the last. Grown in a matter of months in a strange orange liquid, yet this life isn’t new. It’s the same old life, repeated over and over and over. They are not God.
Oscar won’t stop fighting them. He won’t stop until he wins. Neither will the remains of humanity, which is camped out in the woods surrounding ARC. They didn’t fight in the Last War for this. For their future to be stolen from them and frozen, for the men at the top to play God.
Oscar drops his bag and signals for the others to go back to their tents. They have time to kill now as the next clone is grown. In the dusky light, his eyes search for his tent amongst the hundreds that nestle between the tall, straight, trees. He picks up the pace as his wife emerges from beneath the heavy canvas. She looks up and sees him. Her eyes are tired, but she still smiles at him as he makes his way towards her.
Oscar reaches out for the bundle his wife cradles in her arms, and she relinquishes it with a gentle sigh. She presses a finger to her lips. He knows she was up all night, just like every night for the last few weeks. He peers down at the warm thing in his arms. She is sleeping now, but soon she will be screaming again for milk, for the smell of her mother’s skin.
“Good evening, Isabella,” he whispers.
He is fighting for her—for his sister and for his daughter. For every child, in suspended animation inside ARC.
As he watches his daughter sleep, he prays that the next Martha will be different, that she will open the only door in ARC and let him in.
“ARE YOU GOING TO JIMMY’S?” Stan asked as Max slid his radiation suit off its hook.
“Yeah. Just for a bit,” he said, slipping the crinkly fabric onto his feet and hoisting it over his shoulders.
“You have your gloves? That suit’s useless without gloves.”
“I’m not stupid, Dad. I know what I need so I can go outside. Just because Mom ...” His eyes widened before they dropped to his boots. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ...”
It’d been six months since the blast, and Stan had decided to stay home with Max for a while. Just until school starts back up, he’d assured himself. His boss understood. The office would still be there when he was ready to go back. But Stan didn’t know if he would ever be ready.
“It’s okay.” Stan cleared his throat, “Just remember to be SAFE.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Stay Away From Everyone.” Max rolled his eyes and put on his helmet. He twisted it and it clicked into place, latching to the jumpsuit. He went into the decontamination room, closing the door behind him.
Stan stood at the small circular window, watching him exit into the outside world.
As the exterior door opened and the wind howled into the small space, he couldn’t help reaching for his own suit, holding on to it just in case Max needed him. The door closed, and the room sealed with a hiss. Decontamination gas pumped in and lingered, blocking Stan’s only view to the outside world, and his heart beat faster, sweat beading on his bald head.
The fans kicked in, and the mist cleared with a violent whirlwind. He could see outside again.
Max had made it across the road and to Jimmy’s front door. The door slid open, and he disappeared inside.
Stan let out his breath, sighing like he had just finished filling in for Atlas, the weight of the world suddenly off his shoulders. He walked over to the B13 unit on the counter and punched in the code for straight black coffee. The machine whirred and ground up the organic waste in its basket, then sputtered hot black sludge into his Mickey Mouse mug.
He hated the mug. It had a chip on the lip that forced him to drink it left handed, and he had never been fond of the jubilant rodent. But it had been Deb’s favourite. When he used it, he felt like she was there.
He sat at his cramped little desk in the corner of the living room and clicked on his ham radio. It’s after three, Chuck should be home from the office now.
The electricity hummed through the old circuits, and Stan took a sip from the mug while he let the tubes warm.
He picked up the handheld and pressed the button. “Old MacDonald, this is Papa Bear. Are you in?” he said, using their code names.
The speaker crackled with static before Chuck replied, “I’m home Papa Bear. How’re you and Baby Bear this evening?”
Stan smiled. Max hated that his code name was Baby Bear. “Doing fine. Just Papa tonight. Baby Bear’s off with another cub.”
“Oh good!” Chuck said. “I was hoping for some time to chat like adults.”
“What’d you have in mind?”
“Well, I’ve been think—” the wind howled and shook the lead sheets that covered the house, and the lights flickered, making the radio cut out. “Anyway, that’s what I’ve been thinkin’.”
“Sorry, Old MacDonald. Wind blew you away there. Say again?” Stan crinkled his nose to push his glass up as he leaned in to hear.
“I said, ‘I’ve been thinking about Deb’ is all. I don’t think that blast was an accident.”
Stan felt the beads of sweat return, and he wiped his smooth head. “Wha-what do you mean it wasn’t an accident?”
“Well, think about it. Has the warning system ever failed before?”
“Yeah. Once. When we were kids, remember?”
“I do. I lost my uncle in that radiation wave.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s alright. It was a long time ago. Point being, do you remember what it was like before that ‘warning systems malfunction’?”
Stan thought back. He’d been young. The first wave hit the Earth just before he was born. They had been lucky in America: it had hit the other side of the planet the first time. They’d been given time to predict the next radiation wave and shield their homes to protect their citizens. He still had nightmares about the pictures he’d seen in school that showed the devastation in Russia from that first wave.
“I guess we would’ve been about twelve or so? Things were pretty lean back then.”
“Damn right. People were turning to cannibalism before they got radiated, things were so bad.”
Stan grimaced, not wanting to think about the packs of waste walkers that roved the open country between cities. He didn’t want to think about Deb like that. “What’s your point, Chuck? Why don’t you make your God damned point?”
“Take it easy there, Papa Bear, and don’t use my name for Christ’s sake.”
“I-I’m sorry.” Stan took off his glasses and pinched his nose to try and keep the tears back. “It’s just, Deb. You know?”
“Yeah. And that’s my point. Things were bad, then the warning system ‘malfunctioned’, and things got a whole lot better real quick.”
“So you think they made it malfunction on purpose?” Stan felt his face flush.
“Your damned right I do.” Stan heard Chuck’s chair creak, and he imagined he leaned into the microphone. “There’s been a lot of chatter on here. Lots of talk about food shortages. Not enough production coming from the cricket mines. Supply chains being hit by raiders. All in all, they figured there was only enough stock left for a week.”
“A week? That can’t be right.”
“That’s what I heard.”
Stan took a sip of his coffee sludge and crossed his arms, letting the airwaves quiet while he pondered.
“Did I lose you, Papa Bear?”
He set the mug down and pressed the button. “No, I’m still here. You realise the implications of what you’re saying, of course?”
“Course.”
“I don’t know. If that’s the case, then why hasn’t anyone else figured it out? Why isn’t it in the papers?”
“You think they’re just going to let people talk about it in public?” Chuck laughed. “No way, Papa Bear. No God damned way. They control everything! They deliver our food, determine our rations, what clothes we get. What jobs we do. Why on earth would they let us talk about this ... thing.”
“The word you’re looking for is genocide,” Stan said.
“No. Not genocide. A cull.”
Stan nodded to himself. “Yeah. I suppose ‘cull’ fits better.” The wind gusted again, and the power flickered, making the radio squeal and turn to static. Stan took a sip of his coffee, his mind racing with the implications. Deb was gone, along with a hundred thousand others from the last blast. If this was true, then it would be the biggest cover up in history.
The wind slowed, and the power supply resumed at full capacity. “What do we do? How do we check this out?” Stan said.
“You don’t ‘check this out’, Papa Bear,” replied a thin, raspy voice.
Stan’s stomach flip flopped, and he nearly dropped Deb’s mug, splashing black coffee sludge on his shirt. “Who the hell is this? Where’s—”
“Old MacDonald? Or should I say, Chuck.” The man laughed. “He’s”—a thump followed by a grunt came through the speaker from the background—“indisposed.”
“I-Why are you doing this?” Stan said, trying to keep his voice level.
“You said it yourself, Papa Bear. It’s a cover up. The squeaky wheel gets the grease. So, I suggest you stop squeaking or you’ll end up like Chuck over here.”
Stan’s hand trembled, and he set the mug down before he dropped it. His arms felt numb, and he thought he might vomit.
The voice said, “By the way, thanks for the assist. We were having trouble figuring this ‘Old MacDonald’ guy out.”
The line crackled and went dead, leaving the hum of the tubes and the ticking clock as the only noise in the living room. A room that had felt safe, and it now felt like a coffin.
The clock ticked out five minutes, one second at a time, before Stan could bring himself to switch off the radio. When he did, he felt an ocean well up inside him, an ocean he couldn’t hold back. Is he really gone? Chuck...
The door hissed, and the contamination fans whirred. Stan took off his glasses and wiped his eyes, sniffing to hide the snot as Max came through the door.
“Hey there, buddy. Did you have a good time at Jimmy’s?” he said, his voice distorted as he tried to make his face smile.
“Dad ... are you alright?”
“Uh.” He coughed and looked at the mug on the desk, remembering how Deb worried about what Max found out about the harshness of the world. How she always tried to shield him from the horrors of the waste. “Yeah. I’m alright. Just ... just thinkin’ about your Mom.”
