Nairobi (AP) — Evan, Yorick, D’Lama—these are just a few of the names heard worldwide that reference the first man on Earth in nearly a millennium.
A multinational team based in central Africa has announced the successful birth of Man at 8:36 UTC this morning. Scientists everywhere await verification of his sequence and confirmation of his vitality. Whether or not Man survives his first year, this groundbreaking leap, representing centuries of research and experimentation, is sure to forever change the course of our species’ existence on a level that could rival the Sudden Loss of 2108.
#
Etalice accompanies me to the dorm, carrying both my suitcases while I hold only my duffel and a pillow shaped like a polar bear. I’ve always had a fascination for things long extinct.
We nod and share fleeting hellos with the other mother-daughter pairs in the hall as we make our way to my room. If the whole building were picked up and shaken by a giant who then dumped us out on the quad, we could easily sort the pairs back together—even the ones who don’t look like time-separated twins share obvious features and mannerisms, though many of my peers have put admirable effort into creating a unique appearance with fashion and hair dye, piercings and even the occasional tattoo. I’m pegging those in the latter category as new-to-Witchniss, like me. I, however, prefer to keep my puckishness hidden beneath a basic façade, opting for regular shirts and pants and the like. Whatever’s on sale at the co-op. The less you stand out in appearance, the easier it is to get away with things.
Before she leaves, Etalice hands me a wad of paper, which I realize after a moment is gift wrap. Inside is a pair of royal blue key gloves for doing schoolwork. The wrists are monogrammed in silver thread that reads "Thetalice" on the left and "966 LS" on the right.
The gloves are gorgeous, the gift is kind, but, "Thetalice? No one calls me that." And I never give my birth year in LS, only in AD, like the rest of the world still uses. Why we could switch to metric, but had to reinvent the calendar, I’ll never understand.
Etalice glances at the floor then back at me. "I thought you might want to try it out here. New town, new you. But look inside them, anyway."
I flip up the edges of the wrists to see another set of inscriptions on the soft inner lining: "Haze" directly beneath Thetalice; "The One And Only," beneath the dates.
"That will never change," she says as I read. "No matter what you do."
In lieu of saying thank you, I hug her. She doesn’t really get it, but I love her for trying.
#
I had planned to stay in tonight and wait to meet my roommate, who is arriving late by airbus, but the laughter coming from the common room draws me out. Raging hormones and all that; I’m susceptible to silly games and flirtation like anyone else, no matter how much detached analysis I conduct. Also, I can’t affect the brooding persona, something I’m considering—not what Etalice suggested, exactly, but I’m sure I could pull it off—when no one notices I’m missing.
Did I say brooding?
I mean uninterested. School interests me, yes. I have many questions, much curiosity. Awareness that knowledge holds power.
But the letters and lines? Measuring myself against my other selves is enough, without adding in schoolgirl hierarchies. I have the sense that force will be strong here, and I’m bracing accordingly.
I’ve already counted two alphas in my hall. They didn’t have to announce their stage—you can spot them anywhere. Alphas all have the confidence of someone with no shoes to fill but her own, someone born to set the trend. They think they’re so important, but if you ask me, it’s the omegas who have the real power.
Omegas I can’t spot as well, though I try. Their faces fascinate me in the same way as lit windows viewed from outside at night. I search them for signs of weariness, wisdom, secrets. I imagine I find those things, willing their existence as hard as I’d willed the reality of magic or a long-lost father in my early childhood. Impossible but irresistible daydreams, now filed away with dragons and unicorns and world peace.
As a theta, I’m the part of the movie that gets glossed over in a montage. Probably for the best, though, considering how my "accomplishments" aren’t exactly helpful to our legacy.
Once, it might have been called middle child syndrome, or some other such nonsense. But family meant something altogether different then, too, so I don’t put much stake in it.
I stop with my hand on the doorknob to pat down the fuzzy black wisps I feel defying gravity around my forehead, but they stand back up immediately. When I shake my head, I know they sway for an extra beat so I resemble Medusa.
What a perfect resident of Witchniss that would make me.
An excited voice resonates as I step into the long hall. "Epsilonsilmani, you’re next! With Bug." Cheers follow, and I head to them.
As I walk, an open window somewhere lets in evidence of autumn: echoes of crunching leaves beneath bicycle tires and distant temple bells carrying through the cool air, the subtle scent of decay as the earth folds into itself, an automated preservation.
Three meters from the double doors, one of which is propped open by a wooden chair that has strayed far from its matching desk, a husky voice crystallizes. Amid squeals and shouts, it bellows, "Let’s make a baby!"
A game of Procreation.
In the doorway I pause, unnoticed, and track the source of the provocation. "Almost done here—’Mani, you ready?" the second speaker asks, flipping her two waist-length dirty blonde braids over one shoulder as another girl applies pastel to her eyes and mouth. She must be Bug, then. The makeup colors are garish, more so in the old-fashioned bulb lighting overhead. Still, she’s an eye-catching picture of health, with skin that’s been deepened in warm layers by sun and heritage.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
When the makeup is done, Bug rises and teeters on her toes in the middle of the room, striking a cartoonish pose of salaciousness—ass out, hand on hip, lips pouty. Inflated balloons—probably swiped from the greeting assembly this morning—fill her tunic and pull it up to expose her navel-less midriff. I suddenly want everyone to raise their shirts so I can count, as though the percentage of pod births in my hall will illuminate something crucial and prepare me for the year to come. It’s pure bias to assume that more navels will mean more problems, especially coming from a girl with her own innie, but I can’t help the urge from briefly surfacing.
The girl playing Man—Epsilonsilmani—stands in front of Bug with a drawn-on goatee and a scarf looped into an unconvincing tie knot. She looks up at her and reaches for the balloons with both hands. One pops, and the room refills with screams of laughter.
"My fault!" Bug yells at Man, grabbing the offending hand and placing it on her hip instead. Man regains herself, then comes in so their hips almost touch. Someone hands her a bruised banana, which she holds in front of her crotch, curving up so it hits Bug’s stomach.
Man initiates: "Let’s do it."
Bug loses the pose and rushes to the floor where she lies on her back spread-eagled. Man gets on top, though her position is hard to see through the bouncing, raucous girls who’ve crushed in around them to watch. A thrust or so later, Man jumps up while Bug lays pushing the remaining balloon down through her tunic.
"Oh Gaia! Oh Gaia! It’s HAPPENING!" The balloon emerges to cheers and whoops. Man sweeps it up holds it above the crowd, looking reverent at the ceiling.
"You did it, baby! Our own little alpha. What’ll we call her?"
Man’s letter drop reminds me of why I usually hate this game: The offspring are always alphas. Everyone used to have alphas.
As much as I, too, romanticize the Male era, there are definitely things I’d change if we had a do over. Of course, given how many women spend their lives theorizing and experimenting on exactly that issue, I doubt my voice weighing in would make any difference.
Bug hams it up. "Man! Don’t be an idiot. It’s a boy."
Man reappraises the balloon, turning it side to side. "Ah, I see now. Well, what’ll we name it?"
"Gonzo!" Bug quips back fast, and the girls go wild. I can’t help a smile myself, though I can’t distinguish whether I’m reacting to the joke so much as her riotous personality.
She stands and bows to the applause with Man. Another set of girls has already risen for the next round. A voice from the couch cries, "This time show some dominance!"
When I turn, Bug is beaming in my direction. Ripples of past laughter mark the skin at the sides of her eyes like on an older woman, though the effect on her is of enchanting maturity rather than age.
"Hello—Thetalice was it?" she says. Her voice is soft yet clear in the busy room. I have no idea where she might have picked up that information. She steps towards me with her knuckles out. I brush them with my own.
"Haze," I correct her.
"I overheard as you were checking in this morning," she seems to have read my mind. "I was behind the desk, where you’ll be next year. Good to meet you!"
"You as well. And congratulations—he looks like a healthy darling."
We sit down together to watch the next round, and the next and the next. Then the game switches to Dare-You followed by Imposter until finally a monitor stops by and recommends going to bed so we don’t oversleep on the first day of classes.
#
When I get back to my room, my roommate has arrived and begun decorating. Her things are all bright colors and clashing prints that seem loud next to my own objects in sensible coordinated earth tones. Standing in the threshold, the space resembles a photograph mirrored by its negative.
"Thetalice, I take it?" she says, with a length of crochet-like material radiating yellow and pink light in her hand and a smile on her face. I’m starting to feel that my reputation precedes me, though it’s somehow not the one I left behind. Or the one I was planning to cultivate. The one I intended to plan to cultivate.
"I go by Haze. And you?"
"I go by my name: Chimera. Great to finally meet you in person! You okay with this light lace? I love retro."
Haze is my name, I want to reply. Respect it. Consider why you cling so hard to yours, and why you feel the need to jab at mine.
Instead, I say, "Sure, it’s… the rat’s pajamas? I like retro too, mostly of the natural history variety." At the last part, I point to the polar bear on my bed, black and white on my gray duvet.
"Groovy!" she exclaims, then laughs. "I believe it went ‘cat’s pajamas,’ by the way. Or ‘bees’ knees.’ Victorian, I think."
"Well, that makes more sense."
Chimera laughs again and I feel the corners of my mouth rise with my teeth glued together. I really should have taken more time to think through this new persona thing.
By now I’m holding up one end of the light lace while she tacks it into place. She sticks the last pin in, then climbs down to pop the top off a box of throw pillows. Based on her mountain of personal effects, she must have hired movers—silent ones we all missed while socializing down the hall.
We continue chatting and unpacking her copious décor and outfits—a process that must take ten times longer than my own unloading with Etalice that morning—and our banter becomes easier. Chimera’s a little out there, enough that I’d guess she was a Witchniss native if not for her manner of arrival, but generally enthusiastic and friendly. What I first found standoffish or grating about her morphs into a respect for her frankness and self-assuredness. Her convictions may be different than mine, but her absolute surety when expressing them inclines me to nod along anyway.
Which makes me uncharacteristically short on skepticism when she drops an asteroid of a personal reveal.
As a chi, Chimera is a twenty-second iteration, and she claims everyone in her line has been becoming a master writer. I’m not impressed until she shares another piece of her family herstory—the Great Unified North American Novel that’s been in a mid-draft state since her alpha began it. Mathematically, that means her book has been in the works for at least seven centuries.
I beg to read it, and she declines; it’s her life’s work to add to it. Late at night when only the moon illuminates our faces in bed on either side of the room, she whispers her secret plan to finish the draft. She will make a mark in her line, stand out forever as the letter where they underwent the critical transition from writing to revising. Her goal isn’t born of ego, she tells me, her voice picking up and gaining a breathless edge, but out of consideration for her omega, who will have to finish the thing.
I can’t sleep the rest of the night thinking about it. How grand and weird a tale, the book and the task both. She’s all in where I’m checked out. Do I envy her? What will her omega do?
Just as day begins melting around the windowsill, my limbs jerk involuntarily under the covers and my eyes open wide. I stare at her peaceful face in horror—because who will read it?