Jenna McCormick: Born

The new doctor said I need to keep a dream journal, to keep track of my visions. He doesn’t understand they come all the time, whether I’m awake or sleeping. I agreed because I had to, but what he doesn’t know is that I am keeping two. One is make believe, all about ice cream and pony rides, boys I like and mean kids at school. Normal stuff—things he wants to see because then he’ll say I’m fixed and won’t call CPS on Mom and Daddy.

This one is about what I really see. The darkness, the burning buildings and the enormous deserts. In my dreams the Earth doesn’t spin anymore, a machine made it stop, and billions of people spun off into space. Those who remain are nomads, following the darkness so they don’t die from exposure. Using artificial light sources, they set up farming communities near the few freshwater lakes that have not been swallowed up by the polar oceans.

Usually, I float over the scorched landscape, the one great supercontinent surrounded by the two polar oceans. I see the piles of bleached bones on the light side, they span for miles, stretching back through time. Then, I find the survivors. They live in small clusters, the Born colonies as they call themselves. They are the descendants of those that did believe the prophesy and went deep underground. The Bred do all the work though, people grown like crops. The Born are too few, too important to do manual labor. They must carry on their lines and police the Bred.

Last night’s dream was different though. I’ve never been in the dream before, but this time I viewed the world through the eyes of a man. He was tired and sweaty, but his fingers had turned almost blue with tilling a new field for planting. Since the world is dark for half the year there are no real seasons anymore. Light and dark, hot and cold.

Crops are grown year round inside plastic tents.

His job was to prepare the hard ground to take seeds after the structure was enclosed. The shovel burrows into the soil and clangs against something hard. He looks around, but he is the last one left, having given up his meal privileges for one of the children. The Breds must earn their food through work, but he has skipped many earned meals to help feed an ill child. I can feel his hunger, his stomach aches. He’s almost to the point where eating would make him sick and there aren’t any in this camp that would give him a meal. If he grows too weak to work, he will be recycled for usable parts.

Curious, he drops the shovel and uses his hands to dig around the metal thing, finding the edges. It’s a box, like the size of a lunchbox but thicker. The supervisors will have him flogged if he doesn’t report anything out of the ordinary, but he is angry and tired and thinks maybe he was supposed to find this.

There are too many Breds in the barracks at this time of day so he goes to the barn. I can smell the hay and the poop that the animals have made since the last time their stalls were mucked out. The horses have all been tended for the shift, no one else is inside.

Settling down in an empty stall, he runs his dirty hands over the smooth surface. The metal is rough and cold after being in the ground so long. I can feel how fast his heart beats inside his chest and want to beg him to open the box.

“You there! What are you doing?”

He jumps at the sound of her voice and glances up. It’s the woman, the supervisor he’s seen on barracks patrol. She has a reputation for being cruel, but he can tell she is not from the look in her eyes. He has known cruel Borns before, the ones that punish the Bred just because they can.

She is beautiful, with red-gold hair that she keeps tucked inside her warrior’s helmet. He has only seen her without it once but he remembers it vividly, how she looked in front of the bonfire.

Will she have him flogged? He looks down at the box again. If he is going to be whipped, he will give her a reason.

“Don’t!” I scream when he reaches for the latch.

She uncoils the whip from her belt. “You leave me no choice.”

He pivots away from the blow, offering his scarred back, still cradling his treasure. The whip whistles and the sharp crack wakes me up. My back hurts and when I looked in the mirror this morning I have a scar between my shoulder blades.

“What are you doing?” The Bred asked Allora as she bent down to examine his back. He was no stranger to a sound lashing, his back an intricate web work of scar tissue that stood out in sharp relief next to his golden skin tone. Shit, she wished he would have just handed over the box when she’d ordered him the first time.

“Patching you up, you ungrateful cur.” His eyes stayed shut as she produced the poultice gel from her utility belt and aimed the dispenser at the throbbing wound. “You ready to hand over your prize?”

He nodded once and she applied the gel immediately. He had not been so cooperative in the past; otherwise the supervisor on duty would have healed him right away. Breds were known to be thick-skulled, the only teacher they respected was pain but Allora saw no reason to let one suffer any longer than necessary.

“I just found it, out in the new field.” Still he didn’t let go.

His big body trembled in relief and she allowed him thirty seconds to regain his composure before making her demand. “Now, hand over the box.”

“I only wanted to see—”

Allora cut him off with a clipped tone. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

He shuddered once and extended his hand. She didn’t reach for it right away, that was an ignorant move worthy of a new supervisor, not a second level task mistress. Instead she watched his face. Breds had no control over their emotions and Allora had some proficiency in understanding them.

Which is why I’m still alive.

She expected to see malice or a promise of retribution written across his features, but instead there was only a quiet longing. And he wasn’t staring at the box.

“Please, I want to know what’s in there.” Despite the please, he didn’t beg, just asking for his due.

Allora hesitated. There was no rule against a Bred witnessing a discovery. Oftentimes they were present when a new field yielded surprises. The regs stated that a supervisor rank or higher must control the situation. “All right, you can open it.”

He didn’t thank her, obviously a proud lug. Allora expected nothing more. Politeness was irrelevant as long as he obeyed. She watched him shift to his side gingerly, as if unsure whether her poultice would hold. She noticed the hollows under his cheekbones, the gauntness to his entire frame and asked, “How many meals have you gone without?”

He refused to meet her gaze. “Why do you care?”

She fingered her whip. “Don’t push me, Bred. I don’t want to beat you again, but insubordination will not be tolerated.”

This time he did look up, his bright blue eyes alight with an unholy fire as he stared at her. Allora had to steel her reserve to keep from backing away.

His voice was low as he whispered, “There are those who need it more.”

Holding his stare, she dug into her hip pocket and withdrew a nutri packet. “I agree.”

He frowned, looking from her to the packet and back. She jiggled it impatiently and when he proffered his hand, she dropped it into his grip. He stared at it warily and she sighed, loathed to explain her actions, but knowing he would not eat until she did so.

“There is more than enough food to go around and I see no reason why any ought to starve.”

This time he did surprise her. “Thank you.”