All my life, I grew up knowing what I was missing. I wasn’t sheltered, really. Well, okay, I was, but I was also informed. I lived with my parents and siblings, as well as other families who lived just like us. “Normal” people called us an experiment, but we just chose to live differently. Well, I didn’t have much of a choice, I was born into it.
But I wanted more. I wanted to know how society really worked, and not how we made it work in our little bubble world. So, to be frank, I left.
--
GARRETSBURG, NEW YORK – 2132
I walked from home and caught a jet in Orlando. I was the only one; jet travel had been out-dated for years and was the transportation for the poor—like me. But now in New York state, I didn’t know what to do.
A little girl stopped on the street, no adult anywhere to be seen, and asked why I wore such funny clothes. I looked down at my worn jeans and corduroy jacket, covering the ancient t-shirt. I bent down to her level. “I’m not from around here,” I said, noting her common outfit that I had only seen before in books and magazines.
“Well, that’s a silly excuse,” she said, pushing her short hair behind her ear, “I’m not from around here, but my clothes are normal.”
“Do you have parents?” I asked, looking around.
“There’s Daddy,” she replied simply, now pulling at the bottom of her shirt.
“Where is he?”
“I dunno. But I’m old enough to have a HI/T! He can find me when it’s time to go home. I got it when I was two.” She looked proud of herself. “You’ve got your HI/T, right? So your daddy can find you?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I admitted, “What’s a ‘hit’?”
“I dunno. It’s right here, though.” She turned around and pointed to the back of her neck. “Everyone’s got one, Daddy says. You must be weird.”
A man walked up and took the girl by the hand and pulled her away. “Four, how many times have I told you not to talk to strangers.”
“He’s nice, Daddy,” Four said, “But he doesn’t have his HI/T.” The man looked at me, almost glaring.
“I should report you,” he said, and walked off. Four looked back at me and waved goodbye. I stood up and waved back.
“Well,” I thought, “I’m probably quite [censored].”
--
I spent the remainder of the day walking around the city. Luckily, I managed to find some more suitable clothes. The fabric was a bit uncomfortable, but I got used to it after a while. It was somewhat like spandex, but not as tight or stretchy. Maybe like nylon, but still somewhat like spandex. Either way, it was different from what I was used to.
It was around dinnertime that I finally began to feel hungry. I entered what I assumed to be a bar and sat down at a table. Without warning, another man soon sat down with me.
“You’re not really from around here, are you?” he asked.
“Is it that obvious?” I asked, suddenly feeling really paranoid that I had done something weird.
“No, I’ve just never seen you before,” he said, “And your hair’s all wrong.” At this statement, I put a hand on my head and stuck my fingers into my fairly-short hair. I noticed that his hair was semi-long and kind of shaggy, yet well-kept and clean.
“I’m sorry about that,” I said.
“No worries. It’s just a fad, it’s not like it’s actually important.” At that point, a keypad rose out of the end of the table. The man pushed some buttons and it went away.
“What was that?” I asked, looking at the spot that it had disappeared into. I never would have guessed that it was in there if I hadn’t seen it emerge with my own eyes.
“Order pad. Do you never eat out?”
“No, not really. What’d you order?” I looked back at him.
“A couple beers. You’re not opposed to beers, are you?” He smiled jokingly.
“No, of course not,” I said, not admitting that I had never had one before. I was only eighteen, which was the drinking age in my town, but it wasn’t really a big deal to be able to legally drink.
“Good,” he said. There was a pause as two cold bottles of beer emerged from near where the order pad had come out. I looked under the table, noting that there definitely was not enough room for a bottle to come from down there.
“I don’t get it,” I said.
“Where are you from?” he asked, taking a drink of his beer. I simply held the cold bottle in my hands.
“Florida,” I said simply. “We don’t really have anything like this in my town.”
“Gotcha,” he said, taking another sip. “My name’s Six Joiner, by the way.”
“Six?” I thought back to the girl named Four. “Why numbers?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I met a girl earlier named Four, and your name is Six. Why’s that?”
“Because I was the sixth born, that’s how it always works. Are you not numbered like that in Florida?” he looked curious, as did I.
“No, we have names. I’m Ashby Ryland. Is everyone numbered?”
“We’re not ‘numbered’; the way you’re saying it makes us sound like animals. And, no, only those who come from breeders are given number names.”
“Breeders?” I inquired.
“What?” he asked, “Do you live under a rock?” I shrugged. “What’s that mean?”
“Well, I come from a town where we live like humans did near a hundred years ago.”
“Well, that’d explain a lot,” Six said. “So you really don’t know what’s going on, do you?” I shook my head. “Alright, then,” he said, “The majority of the female population are breeders. The others are either very rich and actually married, or work for the government as prostitutes.”
“You mean the government employs women as prostitutes?” I asked, feeling completely lost.
“To say the least, yes. I mean, us men have got to pleasure ourselves somehow, and not all of us are up for having anal sex with other men, you know.” I looked sickened. “What? You’ve never been taught anything about homosexuality?” I shook my head again. “You did live under a rock!”
“It wasn’t my choice, you know. I left as soon as I could.” I still hadn’t drank the beer.
“How old are you?” he asked, looking me up and down.
“Eighteen,” I admitted.
“Ah, alright. Are you going to drink that?” He motioned toward my beer and I shook my head, nudging it across the table to him. “Thanks.”
“So, tell me more about these breeders,” I said.
“Well, like I said, it’s most of the female population. There are men, of course, but not nearly as many. Some are just volunteers, too. It’s a good way to make some quick numbers.”
“How do you mean?” I asked.
“Donate your sperm, they give you numbers.”
“What’s all this about numbers?” I asked.
“Currency,” he said, “It’s not dollars like it was before, they’re just numbers.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a card and laid it on the table.
“What’s that?” I asked. I picked it up and examined it.
“My MPC.”
I handed it back to him. “MPC?” I asked.
“Multi-Purpose Card. I’m surprised you made it all the way here without one.” He stuck it back in his pocket.
“How does it work? What’s on it?”
“Money, health records, home keys, motor keys. Those sorts of things. You can only use it if your HI/T matches it. All MPC ports have scanners and such; it’s all out of my league, really.”
“Again with that ‘hit’ thing. That little girl mentioned it, what is it?”
“Human Identification/Tracking. Everyone has one. You’re illegal without one, actually. Well, if you’re over three years of age. Most people have their kids’ HI/Ts by the time they’re one or two, just in case they get lost.” I put my hand on the back of my neck. I suddenly felt very self-conscious.
“How would I get one?” I asked.
He laughed. “Well, to be blunt, I’m pretty sure you’re [censored], Ashby Ryland.”
--
We left the bar together after Six had kindly bought me a sandwich. He had informed me that it would probably be best to return to where I had come from, but at that point, I couldn’t imagine turning back.
“You should be satisfied,” he said, “You’ve gotten to see what a hellhole this world really is. Why would you want to stay here?”
“Because it’s normal,” I admitted.
“Well, that’s a pretty [censored] reason. I really think you should go back to where it’s safe. From what I can tell, your town is one of the few that the government allows to live like that. Odd, really. Sometimes I feel like they’re trying to brainwash us, you know?”
“No, not really.”
“Well, anyway…” He cleared his throat a bit awkwardly. “Would you like a soda?” I shrugged.
“Sure.”
He stopped in front of what I guessed to be a vending machine, and pulled out his MPC and stuck it in the card slot. Simple enough. A light blinked, and he pushed a button. A soda fell into the hole at the bottom. He retrieved it and handed it to me, returning the card to his pocket.
“So, with these MPCs, is there any way for someone to steal money?” I opened the soda and took a sip. It was different from what I was used to, but not all that bad.
“No, not that anyone’s discovered, anyway,” he said as he continued to walk. “There actually isn’t much theft, anyway. I guess there’s just not much to steal. Most things that were worth stealing in the past are now supplied to everyone by the government; communication devices, motors, those sorts of things.” He turned and started to go inside a building. I followed him, hoping he didn’t mind.
“Is this where you live?” I asked. He nodded, pulling his card out again and inserting it into the card slot on a second entrance door. The same little light blinked as it did at the vending machine. “You don’t mind that I’m following you, do you?”
“No, it doesn’t really bother me. As long as you don’t do anything stupid to get yourself caught, because then my [censored] would be in trouble.” He went inside and up a flight of stairs. The building was fairly old, definitely something from the late 2000’s. It was designed differently than the apartments in my town, that was for sure. We stopped outside a door, and he inserted his card into the slot and there was that little blink of a light again. He opened the door.
“What’s that little light do?” I asked as we went inside.
“It’s checking my HI/T. It also records any other HI/Ts that it senses. If you had one, it would know you were here, but since you don’t, then it just thinks that I’m the only one here.”
“Will that be a problem?” I set the backpack I had been carrying down next to the door.
“It shouldn’t be. People manage to sneak into rooms all the time without being detected. You only need to stand a bit away, and you’ll get away with it.” He shrugged.
I looked around the room. There were band posters on the wall, a bed, and what I assumed to be a computer, or some sort of modern-day equivalent. There was no television or stereo, no dresser. I did notice what appeared to be a closet, and also a bathroom to my left.
“What do you normally eat?” I asked, noticing that there wasn’t a kitchen.
“I go out a lot,” he said, “I may have been born from a breeder, but I’m definitely not the poorest guy out there.”
“Do you work?” I asked.
“I guess you could call it that,” Six said, “No one really works, since most of the jobs I’m sure you’re thinking of are done by computers.”
“How do you know so much about what I know?”
“I studied history, and I’m only assuming that you lived like they did in, oh, say… the 2010’s? 20’s?”
“Yeah, I guess somewhere around there… It sounds kind of silly, now that you say that…” He sat down on his bed and offered the desk chair to me. I sat down and looked around.
“So, you like music?” I asked.
“Not really,” he admitted, “I just like to collect these posters. A lot of them are old and worth a lot of numbers.”
“Where did you get them all?” I was inspecting them, some of the bands I actually recognized.
“Most of them I got from the ‘net. I suppose that’s what I spend a lot of my numbers on.”
“How did you get so much… so many numbers?”
“My father was rich, I guess. He was one of ‘the elite’, I guess you could call them. He had a real family. He bought me from the breeders when I was born. I guess he and his wife couldn’t have their own kids. That’s what the rich people do. Men who aren’t rich—they may not be poor—they buy kids from the breeders. Women don’t, because if they’re not breeders, and they’re not rich, then they’re prostitutes, as I said before.”
“Well, that seems a bit sexist,” I said, slightly upset by the workings of society.
“Well, that’s life,” Six said.
“So, if you were raised by rich people, why don’t you have a not-number name?”
“Because I was still born of a breeder. I’m sure that, somewhere out there, you could find Joiners up to twenty, at least. My biological mother, she’s Fourteen Joine. ‘Join’ with an ‘e’ at the end. Every generation, there would be another letter added to the last name, just to keep them different. Once they get to six letters or so, they start back at the stem name, which normally has four letters. So, say I had a biological sister named Eleven Joiner, and she’s a breeder, which she most likely is, then her first child would be One Join.”
“That makes no sense,” I admitted.
“I think it makes perfect sense.”
I yawned, wondering what time it was.
“Are you tired?” he asked, looking wide awake.
“I guess. I haven’t really slept since I left home…”
“Well, I guess that’s good. Had you slept out on the streets, you’d’ve been picked up, and once the cops found out that you didn’t have a HI/T, you’d be gone.”
“What would happen if they found that out?”
“You’d probably be killed.”
I felt my face fall. “Oh.”
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