The Breeders Read online

  The musclehead—Mark—took a quick, inward hiss of air as he grabbed the ninety-five-pound dumbbells and began shrugging them. “Maybe she got the Lrh1 switch. She would’ve made a pretty carrier, even if she was a hetero. Unless maybe she was a genetic mistake. I haven’t seen her around since.”

  Glen giggled with a flamboyant smile. “And we all know what Queen Vincent is doing to those illegal breeders!”

  Panic had drained Dex’s strength in a matter of seconds. If Diana had somehow accepted the procedure to become a carrier, the Bureau of Genetic Regulation would have registered her for a ration of tampons. She would not have bled in public.

  “How long ago was this?” he asked.

  Glen pursed his lips and turned back to him. “Oh, well look at you, all interested in talking now! Looks like she’s moved on, honey. Haven’t seen her in weeks. Nice girl, though, for a breeder. Too bad she’s going to lose that stomach when they insert her with an embryo, you know? Those things, like, grow. Of course, they’ll probably abort it anyway once Mandate 43 passes.”

  Despite Glen’s having at least eight inches of height on him, Dex jumped out of his seat, threw the dumbbells back onto the rack, and stepped into his face. He was close enough to smell sweat through the fag’s cologne.

  “Piss off.”

  But it was Dex who abandoned his workout and stormed toward the locker room. It would be dangerous to come back to this gym anytime soon, lest he risk being cornered in the showers.

  He changed clothes as fast as he could. Dread raged in his chest.

  Saturday, the fifteenth of September, had been his last day of contact with Diana. He had woken up next to her in his apartment, kissed her, and risen to make coffee. After leaving momentarily to run to the corner store for cream, he had returned to an empty apartment. Her overnight bag was gone, and she had left the bed unmade. No note; no “I love you”; no hint, except for the obvious one: when Mandate 43 passed, females, even lesbians, would be needed only for the shells of their ova, because test tube gestation would replace human carrying completely. The law, proposed by Sanjay Raghuvanshi of Srinagar (but conceived of by the Queen, surely) was now up for vote in just four weeks’ time.

  Diana had been nervous about the implications of Mandate 43, but mostly for Dex’s sake. If the Queen were to abolish society’s natural reproductive backup plan, heterosexuals—especially failsafes like him—would officially become disposable.

  Dex squinted again at the city’s glaring skyline as he left the gym. Just when it had seemed apparent that answers would never come, here was this, a clue. Diana had suffered the worst fortune an innocent heterosterile could ask for:

  She had bled like a carrier.

  A MEMORY (HER)

  FOUR YEARS OLD is very young to be reading as well as she is, and Grace is of course very proud. It doesn’t matter that she is making Abraham feel bad, and she cannot help it if he is seven and still on easy readers. It’s dinnertime on Friday, her favorite day, and her father swirls his wine, the way he always does. Grace is curious how it tastes, because the purple color reminds her of the flowers in her dad’s garden—the same garden her father says looks overgrown, even though that’s how it’s supposed to look.

  All day, she has been itching for dinner so that she can make her announcement:

  “I read today how babies used to be made!”

  She screams it over the clanking of silverware on dishes, careful not to look at her father James. Instead, she focuses on her dad Stuart, who is always nicer about things like this.

  Across the table, Abraham claws a fork through his potatoes in slow, jealous strokes. But how can Grace help it if he doesn’t like school? The teachers say he never pays attention, which is why he has trouble learning.

  “And where, pray tell, did you read about that, Grace?” James says. Whenever he sips his wine, he looks like a curious snake, which makes Grace think of snake bites and sucking out the poison.

  “On the com,” she replies.

  The com: a gateway to anything and everything, even for a four-year-old. She can type in anything and learn. Oceans? It would have information. Africa, that far-off place only the military goes to? She could learn about it. Snakes? Well, that’s how she knows about sucking out the poison.

  “Tell us what you learned, Pix,” Stuart says, setting the salad bowl at the table’s center.

  James rolls his eyes at his husband’s nickname for Grace, as always, which never makes sense to her. She beams at her dad and tells him what she knows:

  “Before the Bio Wars, failsafes and carriers used to press their bodies together, and the penis would go in the vagina, and women back then weren’t heterosterile, and the penis would shoot out stuff called sperm, and it would magically combine with female eggs, but not the kind we eat, obviously, and then the egg would just start growing, and then a baby would come out! And when the babies weren’t going to happen, females had to use things to plug up the blood, because it would hurt and come out of the vagina!”

  Her dad smiles, but her father looks stern.

  “And why do you think that was wrong, Grace?” James asks. Now, he reminds Grace of the hawk that was sitting on top of the guest house last week. First he is a serpent; then he is a hawk. She doesn’t know why this makes her nervous.

  “Wrong?”

  “That was a horrible thing that used to happen in the world, and human beings have come far enough in their technological advancements to stop it and control it. Why do you think they wanted to do that?”

  “Because of the blood?”

  “Because of population. The world has only so many resources, and those failsafes and carriers, even though they were not called that back then, were destroying the world by having too many babies. Now, only same-sex people can make babies together, and everyone is happier, even you! Those silly heterosexual breeders almost destroyed the planet!”

  “It said something about genes.” She pronounces the word with a hard G. Geens.

  “Oh, genes,” her dad corrects with a chuckle, leaning over to help Abraham with his artichoke hearts. Dad always reminds her of clouds, not scary animals.

  “Genes,” Grace repeats, thrilled at the pronunciation. “Genes made it so that those magic eggs couldn’t work anymore. Which means carriers couldn’t make babies by rubbing together with failsafes. But I watched a video of it, so I know how it used to be!”

  James seethes. “Don’t they have parent lock on that type of stuff? I told you she shouldn’t be allowed on the desk com, Stuart. Call me old-fashioned.” He lets out an exasperated sigh and swirls his wine.

  Abraham’s face twists into a jealous, angry scowl, which makes him look just like their father. “But you let the engineer make Grace a heterosexual!” he screams, as if he’s somehow won a game she forgot they were playing. “That makes her bad!”

  James raises his eyebrows at Stuart and smiles as if he’s the reason Abraham won the game. Stuart’s face turns red, and he slams the potatoes down in front of his husband. They don’t speak for the rest of dinner.

  CHAPTER 3 (HER)

  HETEROSEXUALS. Babies. Rubbing together. Dirty.

  Today, Grace realized it was a gross overstatement. The world would have gone on, even if humanity managed to destroy itself. It had almost happened during the Bio Wars, and the planet pulled through, somehow. Didn’t it always?

  She was in the grungy women’s bathroom at her office, sitting in the stall farthest down, letting blood trickle from between her legs into the toilet water. Its flow was nowhere near as heavy as the previous evening, but it would still make a mess if she wasn’t careful. Sanitary wipes had held it at bay during her meeting with the Neighborhood Development Council, where her boss, the new executive director Devon Shemple, had all but cancelled the Obesaland project she had spent the last two years planning. Today’s meeting had been a last-ditch effort to rejuvenate the rotting slum, and Shemple had put the project on hold until the New Rainbow Order’s General A
ssembly voted on Mandate 43. It had been only two months since he accepted the executive director post, but it had taken Grace only a day to realize he had no interest in helping the less respected members of society. He was a foot soldier of the Queen through and through.

  I shouldn’t have believed I could make a difference, she thought, arching her spine on the toilet and wincing at the pain squeezing the small of her back. Obesaland did not matter now, of course, but Grace was not yet ready to call it quits with her old life. That she had nobody to turn to with her questions about the last twenty-four hours (What was causing the bleeding? If it really was a pregnancy or miscarriage, how had she become fertile?) made it easier to imagine that nothing had really changed.

  It was a stupid way to think, but the more Grace thought about trying to disappear, the more impossible it seemed. If she were able to make a run for the Unrecoverable Territories to live in the wild, she would need to scan the TruthChip in her wrist at some point along the way. This would brand her a heterosterile to every vendor, government agent, or law enforcement officer she might come across. If they were to find out she was a fugitive, the escape effort would be wasted. Better options would no longer exist.

  The night of the orgy, Todd Bender—the man she had been brave enough to start dating two weeks prior—had handed her a little green pill. It was just over two months ago now.

  “Come on, take it.”

  “I’m not sure I want to.”

  “Come on, you’re hot as hell. This will make you hotter. Take it.”

  “Okay, fine.”

  No backbone. She had wanted so badly to recover from the trauma caused by the lesbian attack outside Pommie’s Pub that embracing her desires publicly, without fear or shame, seemed to be a logical step in the right direction.

  There had been sex. Lots and lots of sex: Todd working magic with his fingers, pulling out, then letting Fletch and Peter do the same. Then Hannah and Elena had licked every part of her as Fletch and Peter fucked them, all while the mysterious Salt and Pepper man watched. “You’re so fucking hot,” they all said as they devoured her, except the silver-haired stranger, who remained quiet and contemplative, even as he escorted her to the couch after Todd disappeared into a bedroom with Fletch and Hannah. What followed was the most intense sex of Grace’s life. Salt and Pepper made her forget Todd Bender completely.

  But he had been gone in the morning. Probably for the best, because she looked like hell. Felt guilty, too, for having given into drugs and thoughtless judgment like everyone else. Instead of feeling empowered, she had crept to the train station with the sunrise, afraid anyone she passed would immediately know what had occurred the night prior and punish her for it.

  Now, this: the biggest of all possible accidents, all because she had acted against her instincts and insecurities to fit in with the crowd. All Grace wanted was to forget it had ever happened, but by the time she left work to meet Linda Glass for coffee, the bloody puzzle pieces were aligning themselves against her willful ignorance. The obvious had been showing itself, despite what she now recognized as her own subconscious denial: she had been sick in the mornings; it had been happening almost daily since the orgy; she had seen bits of blood on underwear in recent years, as if her body was showing signs of unnatural menstruation. Today, Grace knew she had seen the possibility all along and been stupid enough to brush it off. What she didn’t know was how long life would hold together before it decided to unravel.

  LINDA EYED HER CAREFULLY when they found a table at the Union Café in Wayzata, just two miles down the road from where they had grown up. She was a classic lipstick lesbian—ravishing blonde hair, a tight, feline physique, and lips so red they just begged to be kissed. It was no secret she had borne a crush on Grace since childhood. Still best friends, they joked about it often. “Want to make out?” Linda always asked, clearly half-serious. Grace always laughed in response, saying, “Not today, baby.” Had she been normal, they would have been married, no question.

  Today, Linda’s hair glistened against the waning afternoon sun. “What’s up, honey? I thought we talked about that gloom and doom face you keep wearing out in public. You’re too pretty for that. You’ve got to put that dyke gang shit behind you.”

  Was it worth the risk to tell Linda?

  No. As much as it grieved Grace to evade the truth, she did. “It’s not that. I’m just feeling tired. I haven’t slept much this week. Spent all my time prepping for that Obesaland pitch.”

  “Oh yeah, how did that go?”

  Grace told her, forcing the proper amount of frustration into her voice, putting on a show worthy of the old Hollywood movies. She even wrapped in a psychological thread relating to fear of being herself among homosexuals, which solicited an expected—yet somehow sympathetic—eye roll from Linda. Not once did she mention her bleeding, suggest that she might be a genetic mistake, or hint that their friendship might soon go the way of Antarctica. Linda, none the wiser, responded with stories about her daughter Rita, her wife Celine’s drinking problem, and the new bra she had found at V-Barn. Typical girl talk.

  So there it was; there it went. A social encounter, a regular instance in Grace’s normal heterosterile life, a sign that things had not yet changed irrevocably. But the cramps, those little nightmares, were starting again.

  CHAPTER 4 (HIM)

  A BIO POLICE CAR crept onto Spruce Place and parked across the street from the rundown apartment complex where Diana Kring had lived. Dex saw its approach reflected in the building’s front entryway.

  For the third time, he scanned his wrist on the resident panel and buzzed Diana’s neighbor, Trinka. Trinka had birthed eight children for seven different male couples after being forced by the Bureau of Genetic Regulation to become a carrier. Worn ragged by age twenty-seven, she had purposefully become addicted to hard methamphetamines in order to fight the system, and the last child to come out of her had been deformed. Trinka hated the New Rainbow Order more than anyone Dex knew, and she would have no problem letting him break into Diana’s apartment—for a second time—to check for new leads.

  He dared a glance toward the police car while waiting for the woman’s answer. The bearish officer behind the wheel was peering sideways, in Dex’s direction. Here the brute was in his purple uniform, outside Diana’s home, two and a half months after her disappearance. Why now? Had Trinka finally become cause for concern, or was he here for some other reason?

  Dex was due at work in just forty minutes. He buzzed Trinka again, scouring his brain for places in Diana’s apartment he had forgotten to search the first time, wondering if there might have been clues about her bleeding incident all along.

  His spirits had spiraled downward for two weeks after she stopped answering com calls and door knocks. The message had seemed clear: she did not love him, and this was her way of showing it. The orgy at Fletch Novotny’s apartment had been a good way to blow off steam, and the drugged-up woman he had finished with had been beautiful enough to be proper revenge against Diana—an idealist-type who worked for the Obesaland slum, if he remembered correctly. Under her lush, dark hair, however, she had an innocent face and an air of sexual inexperience about her. Fucking her had made him feel as if he was crushing a fledgling under his heel, simply to snuff away his own pain.

  And it had not brought Diana back.

  Not long after the orgy, it became obvious nobody had seen her. When he had finally searched her apartment, Dex noticed her pink suitcase was missing, as were most of her favorite outfits. Diana’s father Joshua was not prejudiced, so he made no mention of Dex to police. Associating his daughter’s disappearance with heterosexual activity might have become dangerous for both of them. While both Civic and Bio Police were much more brutal in Chicago and certain other metropolises in the Recovered Territories, heterosexuals like Dex—and the people who cared for them—were still at risk here in Minneapolis. Avoiding the police rendered Diana’s trail even colder, but it was just as well. If this bleeding incident mea
nt she was a genetic mistake, the shadows would be her safest refuge.

  The com in Dex’s pocket vibrated. He grabbed it and looked at the screen.

  A holomessage from Fletch Novotny. It was the perfect excuse to start walking toward the Twin Cities Com studio. If the officer decided to stop him, Dex would have a good excuse: the midday news, for which he was a camera operator. Trinka did not appear to be home, so with a final glance into the window’s reflection, he turned and started on his way. He kept his gaze locked on his com.

  “Hey, Dex,” said the tiny hologram of Fletch. “Just wanted to say ‘I told you so.’ Remember that chick Sheila Willy I told you about? She sent me a link to this news story on WorldCom. There’s a rally going on in New Zealand about the Sanctuary, so I wasn’t completely out of line about my conspiracy theories last week. Some heteros down there are actually standing up to the NRO. Looks like it’s getting pretty intense. You should check it out. Totally buried in the ‘society’ section of the WorldCom site, so I guess there’s still some freedom of the press. Made me think of Diana. Hope you’re not listening to this in public or whatever. I’m getting nervous again. Ciao.”

  Fletch’s face disappeared. Dex touched the WorldCom menu on the com screen, which brought up a host of stories. He scrolled through them, and there it was, a hologram link. He tapped it with his finger.

  A lisping WorldCom reporter sprang to life.

  “We bring you an amusing report today from Christchurch, in the territory of New Zealand, where straight rights protestors are gathered in Old Cathedral Square, demanding answers about rumors surrounding the NRO’s much-famed and celebrated Antarctic Sanctuary.”

  The gaysian journalist wore a smirk under his perfectly sculpted black hair. Behind him was a line of grungy protestors who were shouting and holding signs.