Page 2 of Brood
Her comment surprises me. She’s always faced life with a compassionate but matter-of-fact resignation.
She mutters, “It’s gonna get harder and harder.”
* * *
I always meet Danny in the Meadow for midmorning break.
The Meadow is a recreational space on the east side of our level, with a high ceiling and a special ventilation system that sustains airflow to mimic a fresh breeze. The colored lighting simulates blue sky, green grass, and bright sunshine. It’s the only space in the entire bunker where the blank white walls and stale air aren’t always closing in.
Danny is a year older than me and exactly my height, with tan skin and dark hair and eyes. We’ve known each other all our lives, and he’s always been my favorite person. We’re comfortable together. We can talk about anything, and I like spending time with him. When I was ten years old, the geneticists analyzed our genes and determined that we’d be a suitable match for breeding.
He’s waiting for me by our normal bench.
I rush through the final steps and wrap my arms around him in a hug. He’s grinning when I pull away. “You’re in a good mood,” he says.
“I guess so. I’m excited about Friday.”
“Me too.” When we sit side by side on the bench, he reaches over to hold my hand. “I’ve been so excited these last few weeks that my hand has been put to good use.”
“Don’t do that too much. Remember what Dr. Cameron said. You don’t want to deplete your sperm.”
“I’m doing just fine on sperm production. And I don’t do it too much.” He slides an arm around me, adjusting me so I’m leaning against him.
“Okay, good. Because my fertile period should be lining up exactly with my birthday. Maybe I can get pregnant right away.”
Danny has a lean, warm body. It’s comforting and familiar. He squeezes me. “I bet we will. We’re going to have more babies than anyone in fifty years.”
The air blows from the large vents in the ceiling, wafting against my face and blowing the hair that’s slipped out of my braid. I breathe deeply, trying to contain the rising hopes and daydreams swirling stronger as Friday approaches.
I’ve been a good citizen of the Refuge my entire life. I was diligent during my school years, and when I showed no particular intellectual aptitude, I worked hard in my internships in mechanics, agriculture, and domestics until they decided the kitchen was the place for me. I’ve followed all the rules. I’ve maintained good relationships. I’ve respected authority in every instance. I always get high marks on my biannual behavioral reviews.
But it feels like I’ve never done anything. Never really lived.
Maybe having a baby will change that.
* * *
When I return to work, the kitchen crew’s supervisor is there, inspecting the morning’s work.
Vanessa is an attractive woman in her mid-thirties—one of the only redheads of her generation. I’ve always liked working under her brisk, pleasant efficiency.
She tastes the breakfast oatmeal, even though it’s already been dispersed, and nods her approval. Then I offer her a sample of the lunch sandwich and wait as she takes a bite and chews.
Her eyes meet mine, and I hold my breath, worried she’s going to criticize. I wasn’t entirely satisfied with the meal, and that’s never a good sign.
Then, “Best sandwich we’ve ever served.”
A rush of pleasure rises from my chest to warm my cheeks. “Thank you.” I try to maintain an expression as no-nonsense and professional as hers, but I no doubt fail.
The only consistent criticism I’ve received in performance reviews is that I’m too emotional. Occasionally, they’ll also say I talk too much. The culture of the Refuge has always been defined by peace and order, so giggling when happy and crying from stress or conflict is frowned upon.
I’ve been doing better lately. I even manage to nod soberly in response to Vanessa’s compliment. I murmur, “Thank you,” instead of grinning and hugging myself.
Vanessa moves on, inspecting Bella’s nutritional calculations and the precision of the packagers’ work.
I try to sort through today’s available ingredients to figure out what to make for dinner, but I’m distracted by far too many good things in the works.
I’m almost twenty-one. My spousal ceremony is on Friday. Danny and I can start trying for a baby immediately. And I just now got the greatest compliment of my life.
