The Fecund's Melancholy Daughter - Brent Hayward [37]
“No. I don’t even know . . .”
“Let me touch it,” pleaded path.
“There was great thunder,” said the man. “They clashed, and a streak come in from the west. But they’re all mine. I have a license to sell them, signed by the chatelaine herself, so unless you got the money to buy them . . .”
“My boy wants to touch them. That’s all.”
“Shit,” said the man. “That’ll cost you. Where you two from?”
“Please,” said path, “let me touch one . . .”
“What’s in it for me?”
“We’ll leave and not scare away any more customers.”
The man laughed at this. He nodded. “All right, then,” he said, and he quickly grabbed one of the artifacts, pushing it against path’s neck, though he did step back and drop it when path began to thrash violently in the sling.
Path’s father shouted. But the shout was faint, far away, much too late to accomplish any purpose:
Taken by train to the lottery headquarters, she saw the ocean for the first time, grey out the window. Sheets of rain streaked the glass. At the horizon, it appeared as if the water ended abruptly, falling over an impossible cliff.
When she arrived at the building, and was admitted, she discovered that a total of four girls had won. Like her, they were eight years old, and from hospices. They waited without speaking, in large plastic chairs, sitting as far apart from each other as possible in the large room.
An intern came, spoke to each briefly, and led them away, one by one. She was last. She never saw the other girls again.
Later still, sitting with an administrator, she signed reams of contracts and releases, marking them with her thumbprint after they had been read and briefly explained to her. The doctor, sitting with them, smiled and nodded, indicating the plate each time: she should touch it and move to the next document.
There were tests. She was prodded and scraped and attached to all manners of machine.
Did she understand the program?
Yes.
Was she aware that her current housing would cease to exist?
She blinked and looked up to meet the gaze of the administrator. The administrator had blue eyes and seemed tired. She wore a pink lab coat.
You mean my body?
Yes. Your body.
I understand then. It’s okay with me.
The administrator leaned back and glanced at the doctor.
You are a brave girl. You will be assigned to a long spacer. A crew of fourteen hundred symbiotes. It’s an important job.
A long spacer was one of the biggest ships. She felt her eyebrows go up, impressed, flattered.
There will be twelve associate crafts, grown in twelve gestating tanks. Do you know what this means?
I will be a mother.
That’s right. You will be a mother. You will have a brood.
Finally, in a white, steam-filled chamber, she was instructed to undress. A tub of milky liquid gently roiled, inviting. Music played a soothing tune.
She took off her clothes. On the ceiling was a large mirror. She did not like to see her own gangly body or even her own blotched face. She was not a brave girl. The administrator and the doctor were wrong. She was not brave at all.
The liquid in the tub was room temperature. She was able to float. Her skin tingled. Presently, though, she fell asleep, and was pulled under.
“Three things elevate our life from the shit we clean up. One is the struggle, and not just with fists and teeth, like an animal—though that has its place—but against things you can’t hit. Like what we just did. Against this.” A movement of his hand, rotating on his wrist to indicate, perhaps, the city and everyone who lived in it. “Number two is getting high. Ale and bud.” Nahid raised his glass and nearly peered directly at Name of the Sun through the cloudy beer within. “Number three is fucking. Coming. Because there