Scott Cleveland - Pale Boundaries

“Just give me a minute,” he sighed. She’d been frantic about the appointment all morning and the extra half hour she spent primping had suddenly become his fault.

Automated traffic monitors issued three speeding citations between their apartment and the freeway. Virene weaved through traffic all the way to the downtown exit and put the wheel hard over, cutting across traffic in the right-hand lane, ignoring angry gestures as the little sports car dropped to street level. Terson endured the reckless exhibition silently.

Virene pulled into a parking space in front of the Social Services building, breaking hard. They hopped out and dashed through the entrance. Terson wrestled briefly with the idea of continuing out the back, but his wife would beat him bloody if he cut out regardless of his abhorrence of bureaucracy.

Virene squeezed his hand as the elevator doors parted.

The Reproductive Service Center took up the entire sixth floor. The reception area held seating for at least one hundred and fifty, walls and ceiling covered with sound deadening fabric and acoustical tile. A path had been worn in the light maroon carpet between the elevators and an island of computer screens and desks inside a circular counter. They signed in with the receptionist less than five minutes after their scheduled appointment. She gave each of them a pamphlet and clipboard.

“Fill these out as completely as you can,” she said. “A family counselor will call you shortly.”

They found seats, instinctively leaving unoccupied chairs on either side to insulate themselves from the other applicants. Terson sensed observation almost immediately after starting on their forms. He cast about with a surreptitious glance to see eyes and faces turn swiftly aside. The anxiety in the room was palpable. No one spoke. Except for an occasional whispered murmur the only sounds were those of pen and paper. A few locked eyes with him and stiffened, offended that he did not alter his gaze as quickly as etiquette demanded. One or two took it as a challenge and stared back with open hostility.

These were not fellow applicants, he realized, they were competitors, each couple seeking to outdo the others, to prove themselves more fit to receive the gift of fertility than any of the rest. The colonists of Nivia had made a prize of the most basic biological drive and began fighting for their children’s lives before they’ve even been conceived. Terson knew, without a doubt, that somewhere in the room was a person willing to destroy a friendship, betray a spouse, and perhaps even plot murder if they believed it could get them a child.

“Mr. and Mrs. Reilly?” The counselor’s eyes fixed on them when they rose. “This way, please.” She turned and led them into the warren of cubicles. Terson felt like a rat in a maze, trapped with desperate wrecks of his own kind, about to be tortured by a civil servant with a degree in witch-doctor psychology.

The faces he spied in the labyrinth were naked, stripped of the masks they wore in the reception area. He saw young, hopeful couples, first-time applicants like Virene and himself. There were slightly more mature faces, some relaxed, comfortable that they’d had one child already and expected to again, some uneasy and concerned because they’d been turned down before.

The very mature couples bothered Terson the most—people conscious of their biological clocks, anguished by the string of rejected applications, following their counselor’s every word praying to learn the reason why .

“But we’ve done everything you’ve said,” he heard one tearful woman cry. “Everything!”

“Have a seat, make yourselves comfortable,” she said when they reached her cubical. “My name is Theresa, and I’ll be helping you with your application.”

“Thank you,” Virene said. She touched a framed picture of two children sitting on the desk. “Are these yours?”

“Yes,” Theresa smiled. “Adam and Joy.”

“You’re very fortunate,” Virene said.

“Oh, I’m sure you will be, too,” she replied.

Terson snorted inwardly. Wonder where you put it when someone not so fortunate shows up, he thought. Or do you leave it there to rub it in?

“Virene, let’s start with you. I see you come from an unusually large family,” the counselor commented. “Do you want several children?”

“We, um, haven’t really decided,” Virene said. “I think I’d by happy with one.”

“Of course,” Theresa said. “Most people would be. Now, your education appears fairly standard; you took the usual childcare and parenting classes in high school; you are due to graduate from college this year with a BA in Liberal Arts. Your work experience seems rather limited. You haven’t held a job for the last two years?”

“I chose to concentrate on my studies,” Virene said.

“Of course. Do you see yourself embarking on a career, or staying at home?”

“I guess I haven’t thought about it,” Virene said weakly.

“That’s not unusual for someone your age,” Theresa said. “Now, I see that you two have had some trouble with the authorities.”

“Not for a while,” Virene said quickly, concern evident on her face.

“It shouldn’t be a problem if you haven’t had any recent infractions,” the counselor said. “You’ve maintained your contraceptive treatments the whole time and that counts for a lot.

“Now, Terson, I see that you are on probation. Can you tell me about that? Your records aren’t very detailed.”

“If you check your regulations,” Terson smiled thinly, “you’ll see that I’m not obligated to answer.” Virene kicked him in the ankle.

“You are enrolled in the Spaceflight Training School at Malone,” Theresa said, recovering smoothly. “How will your career impact your ability to raise a child? Won’t you be absent from home?”

“My specialty is aerospace operation,” Terson explained. “Shuttle work.”

The woman asked a few more questions, making notes on his application, and finished with: “I’ll need the name of your probation officer, of course.”

“What happens now?” Virene asked.

“Your applications will be sent in for review,” Theresa told her. “You should have a response one way or the other in two weeks. If your applications are declined, there will be some material explaining what you can do to improve your chances next time.

“If you’re approved, your case number will go into the queue, then it’s just a matter of time until your turn comes, based on the monthly quotas.”

Maalan Bragg gazed out a window in the Mental Health reception room on the tenth floor of the Social Services building. He could see his own office window glinting in the sunlight at the Public Safety building, the place he would much rather spend his afternoon than here, waiting for his annual mental health evaluation and counseling session. His eye caught a sleek sports car turning off the street below at high speed. The driver slammed on the brakes and screeched to a stop in a parking slip at the curb, wisps of smoke rising behind each tire.

He recognized the couple that emerged all too well even from this height: Terson and Virene Reilly. Maalan stifled the impulse to rush down and confront them and whatever trouble they were about to cause. What he viewed as dedication to duty, however, might be misconstrued as erratic behavior by his counselor, leading to additional sessions, a possibility he wished to avoid.

Doctor Lutz appeared in the doorway. “Maalan,” he smiled, offering his hand. “Please, come in.”

Mario Lutz was a short, portly man twenty years Bragg’s senior, soft-spoken with a kindly face that elicited trust and eyes that could bore through solid concrete at the first hint of deception. Experience taught Bragg to speak frankly or endure more sharply probing questions. The counselor led him to a pleasant sitting room decorated with soothing abstract art and furnished with two comfortable chairs arranged so the occupants could talk without the impression of an interrogation.