《End of the Line》


 First

    The New Mystique, A Student Reader, fifth ed.


    Chapter 8, Part 5: Why Regenerate Myself?


    As we learn in elementary genetics, our DNA is not a static code. Rather, it changes in response to our environment and behaviors throughout our lives. Moreover, as related in the seminal paper "Maybe She¡¯s Born With It, Maybe It¡¯s Methylation," (Franklin, et. al., 2216 AD/102 LS), published in the founding issue of the journal Nurture, we can pass on not only some of these physiological changes to our children, but also deep-rooted memories and even proclivities.


    Thus, by building on her previous letter stage rather than reusing the original genetic information, each iteration of a family line has the chance to do more than simply continue the alpha sequence; they can build on it.


    For thousands of years, families raised their offspring to prolong their businesses or special interests. The knowledge they passed on over generations served to refine their children¡¯s skills and allow them to achieve greater success than might have been possible if starting from scratch. We now know that even more was passed on from parents to offspring than previously confirmed by science, which points to the delicate interplay of nature and nurture in determining one¡¯s path through life.


    Consider now your line and your unique talents. With twenty-four opportunities to grow and hone them, your omega stands to become the best possible version of you. If you are an alpha, you are in the unbounded position to test out many proclivities and set the direction of your ultimate development. If you are an omega, you have the privilege of twenty-three prior versions of yourself within you, each of whom may have deepened her proclivity beyond that of her mother. If you are in the middle, you benefit from both worlds: you have direction, a leg up in your endeavors, and the chance to recalibrate your line¡¯s steering towards your highest expression of proclivity.


    Who will you be?


    #


    I¡¯ve been holding a glass in my hand since our argument started, just waiting for the right moment to throw it at the wall. As happens often, once an action strikes me as possible, I feel compelled to see it through and make it so. The alternative¡ªthat what I imagine I can do lies beyond my actual capabilities¡ªis terrifying.


    Still, I¡¯ve picked out a plain glass from a set that predates both my mother and I and which we didn¡¯t even pack carefully but jammed into a moving box with the utensils. It won¡¯t be missed.


    Etalice¡ªmy mother¡ªseems too focused on ranting; she¡¯s not even looking at me directly. I raise the glass to catch her attention and her gaze darts between it and my face, while she says, "¡­ clearly need an environment with more structure¡ª Haze, what are you doing? Are you going to throw that?"


    I find myself starting to form the word "yes," but catch it and grin at her instead. Then I pull my arm back and toss the glass at the wall.


    My aim is off. It hits the frame of the sliding door to the back patio¡ªwe both inhale sharply and identically at the near miss¡ªand doesn¡¯t even shatter. Instead, it bounces away and into a different box with barely a thud.


    I step over and pick up the glass while Etalice spurts out half-words she can¡¯t seem to settle on.


    Not even a chip. Good Gaia, can a girl get a break?


    Etalice collects herself and takes it from my hands. "Well, that was lucky," she says. I sigh so long I¡¯m still going while she walks to the counter and fills it from one of the spigots in the row. The gin dispenser, I hope.


    "Have some water and calm down," she says, handing it back to me.


    I sigh again and gesture so the ceiling switches from a cheerful, evenly spread apricot illumination to a dim blue tone that¡¯s darker at the edges. If I can¡¯t actually be in a bar right now, or start a brawl or drink, at least I can set the mood. What I think it might be, anyway. I¡¯ve only drunk in a real bar once but was kicked out before finishing the my-tie my more knowledgeable friend ordered. Etalice had overridden my ID chip from afar. What I remember most is darkness, cloying fruit juice, and sticky seats.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    The water goes down cold and crisp, distressingly refreshing.


    She¡¯s waiting for me to speak, I realize. And since I have nowhere else to be, since my stuff¡¯s already packed for move-in day tomorrow, and I don¡¯t know anyone other than her in this town, I speak. "I''ll never understand where you got this absolute obsession with me setting a proclivity when we¡¯ve made it this far without direction. Maybe our proclivity is having no talents, have you considered that?"


    "Everyone has talents, Haze. I¡¯m good at cooking, fixing things, inventing mechanical devices."


    That last one¡¯s a stretch, although she does regularly use her homemade drill-beater and its scrubber attachment for both kitchen and furniture restoration tasks.


    She continues, "You¡¯re mathematical and witty, with a¡­ unique ability to find a means to achieve your goals no matter what obstacles stand in the way."


    I raise an eyebrow. She¡¯s no doubt referencing my rap sheet, filled with trespassing and commandeering of construction machinery, which a judge once referred to as "asinine and reckless delinquency." Possibly also the time I convinced a group of friends to sneak into the closest incubation center after hours and swim in the birthing pools, though I¡¯d push back on that being reckless since no fetuses were ripe and we made sure to bring Betricia, who is a lifeguard.


    I could counterargue with Etalice and point out how this so-called positive trait of mine is also the reason she moved us from Chicago to this ridiculous suburb of mystique fundamentalists¡ªnamed Witchniss, of all things¡ªso I can attend a boarding school¡ªby definition, a place not necessitating a primary residence move¡ªbut her set up is too good not to jump on.


    "Exactly: obstacles such as being born into a line for which I see no value in continuing. It¡¯s my life, I can end us here if I want to. We don¡¯t need an inspirational culmination."


    Etalice drags her palms down her face, pulling the skin. I resist the urge to let my hands make the same gesture. This particular back-and-forth we¡¯re having is well overplayed. She thinks I can¡¯t see the bigger picture, that by refusing to follow the path set by our prior stages¡ªwhatever it may be¡ªI¡¯m being selfish. But I don¡¯t see how she can live feeling that her whole point of existence is to be just one twenty-fourth of a larger life story, that her expression and understanding of self is determined by so many people she¡¯s never met and never will.


    It¡¯s not that I have another plan for my life, but I at least want to be able to define it myself. I don¡¯t buy the argument that I¡¯m somehow less valuable, or worthy, by my lonesome¡ªwhich no one says about the lines, but is the obvious implication.


    I am large, I contain multitudes. (As a man once said. Hah!)


    And there''s more¡ªwhat I haven''t been able to express to Etalice, or clearly to myself. A sense of dread. Is it even possible to be more than a cog in the larger machine of womenkind? Because my stomach knots at the idea, which may be a suspicion, that being an Alice doesn''t actually contribute to anything other than maintaining us all in a holding pattern. Where do we think our omega will actually arrive?


    We stand in silence long enough that I debate going up to my room or reaching for another box of kitchenware to unload. Then Etalice surprises me with a sudden clear word: "Fine."


    "What?"


    "You can end the line."


    My heartbeat seems to have spread to my fingertips, my neck, my eardrums. Did she really just say she¡¯d be okay with me not regenerating?


    She clears her throat and adds, "Under one condition. Before you throw it all away, you need to learn about your line. Know what you¡¯re giving up."


    I resist the urge to roll my eyes at "throw it all away," as this is too good to be true. "Okay¡­" I say.


    "I¡¯m going to give you a copy of the current Herstory of the Line of Alice. You¡¯re going to read it and make notes. Then you¡¯re going to plan a trip visiting some site of significance for each of the Alices before us."


    I¡¯m the eighth, and my previous two stages¡ªmother Etalice and grandmother Zetalice¡ªare both living, so that¡¯s only five stops. Easy.


    "Done. When is the trip?"


    "Autumn break. We¡¯ll bring Zetalice."


    "And after that you won¡¯t give me any more shit about ending the line?"


    "No more shit."


    Good Gaia hallelujah amen!


    I can handle a sentimental family trip and learning some herstory for the ultimate freedom, more than I¡¯ll get even by graduating out of Witchniss Secondary. I can be not just a theta, but an alpha and an omega too, the beginning and end of my own story. My persistence has found a way around my maternal obstacle.


    Maybe she was right about my proclivity.

 Second

    Nairobi (AP) ¡ª Evan, Yorick, D¡¯Lama¡ªthese 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¡ªeven 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 fa?ade, 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¡ªnot what Etalice suggested, exactly, but I¡¯m sure I could pull it off¡ªwhen 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¡ªyou 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¡ª¡¯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.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    When the makeup is done, Bug rises and teeters on her toes in the middle of the room, striking a cartoonish pose of salaciousness¡ªass out, hand on hip, lips pouty. Inflated balloons¡ªprobably swiped from the greeting assembly this morning¡ªfill 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¡ªEpsilonsilmani¡ªstands 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¡ªThetalice 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¡ªhe 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¡ªsilent ones we all missed while socializing down the hall.


    We continue chatting and unpacking her copious d¨¦cor and outfits¡ªa process that must take ten times longer than my own unloading with Etalice that morning¡ªand 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¡ªthe 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¡ªbecause who will read it?

 Third

    Berlin (Reuters) ¡ª Continental Keepers at Berlin Tegel Airport this morning seized four cartons of weapons and grounded a cargo plane bound for Nairobi in an alleged plot against Man.


    The cartons contained male-era firearms, explosives, and sarin gas, a lethal nerve agent not in use since the early twenty-first century, AD.  Pro-woman extremist group the New Eves has claimed responsibility for the plot, adding that they selected the supposed murder implements as a reminder of what womenkind has overcome since the Sudden Loss. Their connections to neither the illegal armaments nor the flight list have been verified. Nonetheless, the Omega Movement has called for the immediate destruction of the New Eves, language the High Council of Global Continuation describes as "startlingly short of a call to war."


    #


    Our finalized schedules with last-minute changes transmitted overnight, and I double check mine before rolling out of bed in the morning. I now have "Runes & the Mystique" first, to my chagrin. In Chicago, we learned about the Mystique and our lines as a matter of herstorical anthropology, but here I have a feeling the emphasis will be more¡­ dogmatic.


    The topic reminds me of my grandmother, Zetalice, who surprised us all when she went to live on a commune at age seventy. There, in the chilly northern plains, she and some thirty-odd older women run a farm and worship at their own temple. For some reason. One day she said she had a dream about it, and seemingly the next day she was gone.


    If Gaia ever comes to me in a dream and urges me to devote myself to corn, I plan to see a psychiatrist. But to each her own.


    Chimera begins her day with math, so I shuffle across the quad alone, kicking leaves and hanging back to observe my classmates from afar as I approach. I wonder if my self-reinvention should include my stance on the lines. My friends at home¡ªat my old home¡ªknew all about my desire to say so long and thanks for all the fish, Alices. I¡¯m off to South America or a floater nation or literally anywhere that I won¡¯t be made to stick around and raise my next iteration so we can keep pretending we¡¯re demi-goddesses, blessed among the women of the world for our ceaseless devotion to order, tradition, and extra-personal responsibility. It''s not like the individualists in the Pacific have a hard time cranking out enough women, and they still have culture.


    My friends, the old ones, would nod and rap my knuckles while saying things like "righteous" and "tell ¡®em Haze," even as they described the colleges they were aiming for in midcountry, which districts they wanted to live in, what roles they¡¯d fill¡ªour generation has been called on to pursue agrisciences and materials engineering in particular¡ªyet they never seemed to share my rage.


    Maybe rage isn¡¯t quite the right word. Passion?


    After listening obligingly to Chimera spout about her family and worldview last night without pushing back, however, on some level it feels the moment for providing counterpoints has passed. Perhaps Haze in Witchniss is more of a listener. I¡¯ll surprise people with my well-thought-out words of wisdom doled sparingly, so each sentence packs a punch. If this class is as soul-sucking as it sounds, maybe I¡¯ll draft out a few axioms to keep in my back pocket.


    The only seat available when I finally arrive is in the corner closest to the instructor on the wraparound couches lining the walls, giving us all an equal view of the central projection area. I am conscious of my outward demeanor¡ªconfident, carefree¡ªas I doff my shoes at the door and stride over the plush rug, tucking my feet beneath me on the cushion.


    The instructor can¡¯t be older than Etalice. She smiles at me even as she scooches away a hair. I feign preoccupation with focusing the projection of my notebook, a transparent screen visible only within close range to me, and securing the fit of my key gloves while I tune into the low chatter of the other first years. All insubstantialities, bland observations and pleasantries given in order to propel us through the final moments of waiting, to distract us from the stress-excitement of the first day in a fresh class at a new school. While they talk, my mind drifts, the deep blue of my gloves reminding me of Lake Michigan.


    Leave it to Etalice to decide a traditional suburb named like a fairytale would be a more suitable location for my development. She¡¯d grown up beachside, and from what I could tell, it was the most stunning location for thousands of kilometers in the middle of this vast, confused country. We¡¯d had nothing but expanse to the horizon right beside the city¡¯s density, an exhilarating contrast. In Witchniss, we have neither¡ªthe old stone and brick buildings spread evenly, none more than five stories. The sun rises over rooftops and sets into trees. You can spin and get dizzy here, but you¡¯ll never get lost.


    I can¡¯t wait to return to the city and the lake, a different kind of claustrophobia. My mother can follow me or not; in three years, I¡¯ll be gone. And if she¡¯s true to her word, I¡¯ll be free to leave entirely, if I want. I could live in Antarctica, or in orbit.


    Until then, I¡¯ll be educated.


    The instructor, whose name is Glory, dims the lights and calls up a rune into the center of the room. Ten pairs of eyes glint at each other through the projection, an artistically interpreted outline of the female reproductive system that rotates slowly. The ovaries have a swirling pattern inside, giving the appearance of a set of eyeballs. When they line up with my eyes, I blink.


    "Female. Woman. Human. What does it mean, for our sex to be vestigial? What do we see through our eyes that we haven¡¯t shaped by our seeing?"


    I take a big, slow inhale as quietly as possible. Tomorrow I¡¯ll arrive earlier. I need a seat where spacing out is easier to pull off.


    Scanning the room, all attention seems to be trained on the rune or the speaker. Most girls lean forward on their seats, a few eager ones raise hands, and two key busily into the air, both with cream-colored gloves. What can they possibly be noting already, I wonder. Her inane rhetorical questions?


    My face stays neutral but I guffaw inside.


    Surely Bug would understand. Too bad she¡¯s already graduated from Glory¡¯s inspired awakenings and is on to part two, which must be something like: "You, Yourselves & Your Place In Line," taught by the esteemed Hallelujah, undoubtedly an alpha.


    "If all you see in this rune is sex, you are missing the truth. It has always been more than sex, a woman¡¯s power. Look closer and you will perceive the shape is not just uterine, but of a woman herself."


    I squint and honestly try to see it. I¡¯ve always thought the female reproductive system resembles the head of a steer, but with my inability to stop seeing eyeballs in the swirls positioned at the far edges of each side, the rendering looks more like a bloated frog or a tropey alien. Glory clearly comes from the same camp Zetalice has joined. I make a mental note to ask my grandmother later what she sees in this particular rune. No doubt her answer will be equally or more outrageous than "a woman herself."


    While Glory continues, I scroll surreptitiously through the dorm directory to find Bug, at a temporary loss when I realize I¡¯ve forgotten her family name. Then I have it: Thetana. She¡¯s the same stage as me. I wait with my finger at the ready to ping her, checking in my periphery whether Glory is paying attention. Still talking, she orients her fingers as though poised to project the next rune. Without losing her in my eyeline, I wiggle my index finger and message Bug. The subtle movements translate into words floating in front of me:This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Greetings human! Learning about my uterus, or something, over here. Think Glory has ever witnessed Procreation?


    I¡¯m heady sending it; fast, I retrain my attention to the lecture and act rapt.


    Glory has switched the display to something thankfully more abstract: a set of twenty-four increasingly smaller circles that telescope inwards, or out, however you want to look at it.


    "Who here knows this one?"


    More than half the hands shoot up. I hope she knows how to read a room, so maybe we can pick things up a bit.


    "Gammaris, please tell us."


    My eyebrows raise without permission. She knows all of our names already? I command my face to relax, then slide my left index finger with a quick up-down, checking for notifications. Bug has replied. I forget my concern about Glory as I raise her words before me.


    From the far side of the room, I hear Gammaris¡¯ reply: "It¡¯s a sign of succession. Twenty-four rings from alpha to omega. Each complete on its own, as well as the extension of the previous."


    Greetings! Ah, I miss old Glory Hole and her deep introspection. You¡¯ll agree with me when you have Dion next year. At least Glory¡¯s not STILL hung up on understanding us as compared with men, centuries after the fact.


    "Good, good." Glory nods. "And which way do the rings extend?"


    "I¡¯m sorry?" Gammaris replies.


    "Inwards or outwards? Who extends whom?"


    Gammaris straightens her back and nods once. "Of course. There is no set direction; the line grows and changes in time, but must be understood as a whole which converges. Everyone is a daughter and a mother."


    Except omegas, and arguably alphas, unless you consider Gaia''s immaculate touch on a test tube to be the original mother of us all. I might push on this so-obvious-and-so-conveniently-ignored point, but I¡¯m rereading Bug¡¯s reply. I¡¯d bet all my coin on no one else bringing it up, though. Sometimes defying logic seems to be a requirement for delving into the Mystique.


    Glory, though, has a curious expression. Something about it nags at the corners of my eyes, pulling my attention from my screen. The room hushes as others must feel it, too.


    "Perhaps. That is one belief. But I¡¯ll have you consider this." She clicks and the image changes to a sped-up animation of a redwood tree growing from a seed until it nearly consumes the room. The tree pauses with its bark inches from our faces, so that we see each other through it as eerie, umber-tinged ghosts. Glory backs the animation up, settling on the infant version of the tree. Then she adds to the right and left schematics of cut-off stumps from all angles that spin in a slow circle around the tree.


    "The rings of the tree grow ever outward, as we all can see. But what of the tree itself? Up and up; the more rings, the higher the height."


    And down and out¡ªthe higher the tree, the wider the roots must spread. It¡¯s not all about what you can see at the surface. I hold my composure, but still¡­ that isn¡¯t the only flaw in the metaphor: trees can keep adding rings¡ªno one cuts them down after twenty-four.


    Another message appears from Bug. Using my pinky, I open it with a small gesture.


    Apparently, the persistence of gender is what¡¯s still holding us back from utopia. I suppose Dion¡¯s never heard of Gethen.


    I¡¯m racking my brain for the location of Gethen, about to look it up, when Glory says my name and I panic that my face has betrayed me.


    "Yes, Glory."


    "Must I remind you of the academic behaviors contract you signed on enrollment?"


    Isn¡¯t that what you¡¯re doing? I think. I consider answering yes, just to see how she¡¯d react, but check myself.


    Instead of speaking, I make a show of closing my screen while shaking my head. Our gazes linger on each other for a moment. My eyes burn, daring her to look away first. Then she smiles at me again, and it looks genuine.


    Now I feel like I¡¯m the one who was being rude¡­ wait.


    Hellfires.


    She turns back to the center of the room and clicks to change the rune, while I stare at the ear where her face has just been.


    Class ends and I realize I haven¡¯t the foggiest idea what the last several images were, nor have I taken any notes.


    #


    Part of me has been pretending I¡¯m a college student walking around the precise landscaping, brick pathways, and rune-carved buildings of Witchniss secondary. But as soon as I walk into the dining hall and re-remember it isn¡¯t a food court, nor a row of MealMakers, but a single grand room with vaulted ceilings and stained glass, wood furnishings and synthetic candle lighting, I know I¡¯m actually in someone¡¯s fantasy novel dream. They may as well have thrown in a few bubbling cauldrons and hung some artisanal birch brooms around the walls. When this town was chartered in the early decades after the Sudden Loss, there must have been something in the water that made magic seem both real and appealing.


    I suppose cleverly disguised technology is close enough. For all its old-school vibes, this is the first place I¡¯ve eaten where drone servers descend from sliding panels in the arches above us with place settings as soon as we¡¯ve sat down. I can''t help but lean back when the one before me whirrs to drop off a goblet, a golden-stitched napkin, and a titanium spork. Later, another wave of flyers will waft in with the food, inevitably carrying warm air from the kitchens like a steamed, pan-seared, or broiled cloud lowering itself onto our plates.


    But first, we toast. This evening Glory presides over dinner. She stands in a deep red togatta like we¡¯re at a gala of some kind and raises a glass to our strong successions. Thankfully, we don¡¯t have to follow the same dress code, because I¡¯ve never figured out how to tie together the one-piece robe myself and furthermore its lack of pockets is completely unacceptable.


    I sip my seasonably appropriate mulled cider and wish it was fermented; I¡¯ve already pegged two students at my table of twelve for alphas. When Glory sits down, we dig into steaming plates of cornbread, collard greens, and lentil pie, eyeing each other over the platters.


    For the first month of school, a randomizer seats us. With 593 girls and fifty tables, I calculate that I have a six percent chance of sitting with Bug or Chimera at any given meal, and a sixty percent chance of sitting with any individual twice in a week. If the goal is to be forging bonds, I don¡¯t understand the method.


    Still, I appreciate that we aren¡¯t sequestered by year or letter or any other discernable pattern. Perhaps that¡¯s the reason for it, to protect us from labels¡ªalthough that only fills me with more questions for our administration.


    Our awkward, quiet pass-the-collards and who-do-you-have-for-data-sciences breaks apart after a couple of minutes when a head-to-toe freckled student begins loudly comparing our dinner to her meals in the nursery, where most alphas are raised. She¡¯s aimed at no one in particular, speaking with the presumption we¡¯ll all listen. I conceal a grin behind my bite of cornbread. Now I just need the other one to chime in.


    Like I¡¯ve given a silent stage direction, the other alpha interrupts with a story about her own nursery shenanigans, and the two of quickly dominate all table talk while the rest of us either feign interest or turn inwards for a heart-to-heart with our pie. The former group are in earlier letter stages for the most part, while the rest are probably thetas or higher. Just a hunch.


    Sometimes, I wish I wasn¡¯t so good at identifying stages.


    I¡¯ve heard that elsewhere they foster the alphas out, which sounds like a better idea to me. Probably gives them less of a goddess complex. As for the rest of us, there¡¯s no excuse.


    I say fewer than ten words total and leave before dessert. Outside the night air is welcoming, as is the lack of chaos around me. My gait slows along the brick pathway from the dining hall towards my dormitory.


    Halfway there, a meteoric flash of silver makes me stop and almost stumble on the path. I look up to see a group of roughly ten students in cloaks standing together between the hedge and the wall of the arts building. They¡¯re all staring at me now, in a silent circle. One girl¡¯s arm is extended towards the center. Another one holds something long and sharp, which glints when I shift to rebalance myself. As they stand frozen, my predator eyes catch the motion of a drip-drip-drip from the first girl¡¯s outreached hand onto the dry leaves. Seconds pass like ages before I notice a small trickle of blood run from the tip of the silver thing to the fingers that grip it, which in the instant of contact suddenly whip the object¡ªa knife¡ªto point at me.


    I don¡¯t think or shout.


    I run.

 Fourth

    Sports Illuminated Magazine


    On the cover: Omegalexandra "Hera" Brown broke barriers both physical and mystical in Aspen last spring. The ice climbing champion is the first of the devout Bloodlines sect, which typically bans competition among its followers, to qualify for the Winter Olympic Games. "Destined to Exceed," p. 43.


    #


    I¡¯m glad most of the hall and my room are empty when I arrive, panting, and slam the door behind me. I catch my reflection in the window¡ªsweaty, wild eyes, hair a mess; I look deranged. The shades can¡¯t release fast enough¡ªanything could be looking in.


    Come on, Haze. What do you think is out there¡ªa werewolf? A teenager in a cloak trying to recruit you to her uber-gothadelic band?


    Maybe I imagined the girls in cloaks outside. In and out, my breath slowly regulates. Background noises begin to fill the hall as others return from dinner.


    I take it as a good sign that my thoughts are now spinning towards the outrageous. Because of course there¡¯s a logical explanation, there¡¯s no reason to imagine what I saw was


    Vampires. No wait¡ªof course! WITCHES! Salem and warts, Hogwarts. Hermione and Serena, Tabitha, Agnus Nutter.


    That does the trick. My racing mind slows and I sink into my desk chair, chuckling at myself.


    Chimera opens the door breezily then sees me and her expression falters. "What¡¯s funny?" she asks with a note of caution. I must still look wild, perhaps in a mildly dangerous way.


    Whatever. Better hilarity than fear.


    "Witches. The idea of witches in Witchniss." I answer, shoulders shaking lightly with unsuppressed giggles.


    "I see."


    Chimera flicks the corners of her mouth as though to smile but her lips remain pressed together unconvincingly. She walks to her side of the room, removes her coat, and hangs her bag over the back of the chair without looking at me again. She¡¯s left her gloves on, which is weird especially because the next thing she does is take out a paper journal. The pen slips slightly between her fingers and she adjusts it.


    Why isn¡¯t she taking off her gloves, if she¡¯s writing longhand?


    My giggles stop abruptly. I need to get out of here, urgently. I consider messaging Bug, then decide to walk to her room instead.


    "I¡¯ll be back," I say, acting distracted by my boots in order to avoid her gaze, though it doesn¡¯t matter since she says goodbye without looking up. In the hallway I¡¯m met with the sound of a rainstorm from more than one shower going in the common bathroom, along with music and warm lights spilling out of open doors. Momentarily, I¡¯m soothed. Until I pass the fountain by the stairwell, which is broken and leaky.


    Drip-drip-drip.


    I dart downstairs to Bug¡¯s level. Gaia, she better be there. Ideally scrubbed in to perform my lobotomy.


    Bug¡¯s door is open. She¡¯s sitting on a woven rainbow rug with her back against the bed. Her roommate is at her desk, and they¡¯re both singing along to something with a thumping beat while they manipulate things invisible to me on their projected screens.


    I relax as soon as she looks up and smiles, still singing. She waves me in and I sit on her desk chair. Her roommate introduces herself as Jazmir.


    Bug speaks as soon as our hellos end. "You, Haze, look like you¡¯ve seen a spectral presence."


    "I practically did. And now I¡¯m losing it." I glance to the doorway, then back to Bug and Jazmir. "Can we talk?"


    Bug rises and shuts us into the room.


    With Jazmir? ask my eyes.


    Yeah, she¡¯s good, Bug¡¯s reply.


    I clear my throat then ramble through what I saw after leaving the dining hall. The two of them interject with a few curt clarifying questions, but otherwise remain quiet until I stop. We sit while my words wash through us then fade like an outgoing tide.


    "Hellfires." Bug finally breaks the silence.


    "You think it¡¯s the same as¡­" Jazmir asks her.


    "Can¡¯t be sure. But either way, it¡¯s not good."


    My head, which has been flicking left to right to track each speaker, shakes more rapidly as I say, "Hold on¡ªyou¡¯re not going to tell me I¡¯m crazy? That there¡¯s no way this wasn¡¯t some a cappella troupe prepping for a creepy nighttime show? Or improv? Or maybe it was some secret society with¡­ unique customs, having a playful little caper in capes?"


    "That one¡ªmaybe." Bug points to me.


    "Playful caper?" Jazmir snorts. "More like playing with fire, fueled by their own misguided righteousness. Dumbasses."


    "They¡¯re Bloodlines, most likely," Bug explains. "But more importantly, some of them may also be¡­ something worse."


    I press the heels of my hands into my temples and push in tiny circles with my eyes closed. After three breaths, I stop and say, "What?"If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Jazmir pulls her chair next to mine so that I¡¯m seated between her and Bug. They each hold one of my hands while they describe a series of strange events from the previous year. Fleeting caped possies flitting in the evening shadows. Corners of the temple that would fall to a perfect hush if an outsider came near. Rune brandings and scarification. A particular shape to indicate membership: a wide hook like a bowed-out cane.


    "But why?" I ask.


    Bug and Jazmir exchange a look.


    "It¡¯s a rib," says Jazmir. "The rib. From Adam."


    They give me several seconds to put it together. I must look blank, because Jazmir adds, "You know, so he can take it back? They don¡¯t need him¡ªor all of themselves, apparently." She ends by snorting again and rolling her eyes.


    Then, finally, I gasp. New Eves. Only psychotic extremists would have such a sick trademark.


    I¡¯m the poster child for a counseling textbook: my first reaction is denial. "No, that¡¯s too nefarious¡ªthis is a school. Why?"


    "Who better to recruit than the impressionable youth?" Bug offers.


    "Who easier to manipulate than someone who¡¯s just looking for friends, or somewhere to belong?" Jazmir adds.


    "Who would fall for that crap though?" I respond, louder than intended. Denial with a side of outrage. I¡¯m moving right along towards acceptance.


    "More than you¡¯d think," says Bug, her voice rising to match mine.


    Jazmir steers the conversation back to last year. "The strangest one though, was Iotabel. She was a senior who disappeared right after winter break. In class one day, then just¡­ gone. A month later she turned up, unconscious and sans one rib."


    I feel like I¡¯ve found out ice cream is made of maggots. Or that my childhood giraffe toy was the symbol for an underground organ harvesting ring. "You¡¯re not serious."


    "Sadly, I am," Jazmir continues. "She was shook¡ªand wouldn¡¯t say what happened to her, no matter how many ways anyone asked."


    I glance around the room, picturing the rest of the dorm, the lawns and stately topiaries along the road, the sleepy town beyond. My thoughts race again. Why does anyone still go here? How have I not heard about this?


    Reading my mind¡ªtruly?¡ªBug jumps in. "I mean, she did have a story, but no one believes her. Fell in with a Chicago chippers syndicate, owed money and got thrashed; rib removed to get at a punctured lung."


    Jazmir looks like she¡¯s struggling to maintain an even tone while adding, "But everyone knows she was one of the cloaked girls around here. Everyone knows that particular bone is far too coincidental."


    "Well, what happened?" I ask. I can¡¯t imagine that was the end of the story.


    "Oh, you know," Bug replies. "The school made some statement about public safety and instituted the Nesteye tracking, so as long as you¡¯re on campus, they know where you are. Warned us about crime. Banned all self-scarification and unsanctioned group meetings in an effort to limit the number of outsiders who get in here."


    I swallow this for a moment, but still can¡¯t reconcile what I saw. "What about the cloaks, then?" I ask. "Why would they advertise themselves¡ªwhy would anyone wear something so obviously tinged, if they were part of some kind of banned secret society?"


    More importantly, why would anyone be willing to lose a rib and be a terrorist over the existence of a few harmless infants? That¡¯s assuming the one in Africa is even viable. The New Eves and the Bloodlines, who I guess are their more palatable counterparts, seem to have some real disproportionate rage issues. Surely, five billion women could keep a babyman under control¡­


    My struggle to understand prevents me from knowing whether I¡¯ve said that last part out loud.


    Bug shrugs. "Freedom of expression? No one¡¯s that stupid though. Not even on Halloween. Well they didn¡¯t used to be, anyway. Still, from your description it sounds like the brilliant brigade you caught sight of wasn¡¯t trying to be seen behind those bushes."


    I nod, though I can¡¯t help but think they weren¡¯t trying too hard not to, either. I¡¯m wary of casting scary cult members as ¡®dumb,¡¯ as nonsensical as their beliefs might come across. That¡¯s a recipe for being caught off guard.


    Jazmir unpeels my fingers from my biceps. I hadn¡¯t realized I¡¯d been gripping them.


    She smiles gently at me. "The moral is: be wary of strangeness, check in with your buddies, and don¡¯t grant easy access to your skeleton."


    I force out a single, unconvincing ha and Bug holds me from the other side.


    "It¡¯ll be all right," she whispers. I don¡¯t know how she knows. For that matter, I don¡¯t know how these two are not only calm, but so cheerful. "You know what wards them off?"


    "Garlic?" I offer.


    "Common sense," she corrects.


    Jazmir laughs. "Ah yes, I forgot that one¡ªdon¡¯t leave home without your brain. Solid life advice, really."


    A new thumping beat comes on the playlist, and we all sing gimme gimme gimme all your love. Meet me in the next life, be my wife, wife.


    The inanity of the song truly does uplift our moods. I hang out a while, letting the division between my feigned ease and the real thing blur.


    #


    By the time I get back to my room, Chimera is already asleep with the lights off. I creep around quietly in the dark before climbing under my covers, grateful that she doesn¡¯t wake or even stir.


    For hours I lie in bed, too wired to sleep. Even if a sinister group is woven through our campus¡ªthe girls on the lawn, their cloaks and the silver, drip-drip-drip¡ªaccording to Bug, they¡¯re preying on the weak and vulnerable. Which of course doesn¡¯t make it all right, but my ego allows me to find a shameful comfort in it. Still, to know about it and not do anything feels wrong, agonizing. Shouldn¡¯t there be some kind of a tip line? A federal agent on the case?


    I roll from my stomach to my back. Chimera has opened her window shade, and clouds outside make the entering moonlight wax and wane across her jungle print bedspread, desk and chair.


    Her gloves, draped over the back of the chair.


    She¡¯s flipped away from me, back rising and falling steadily. I watch for nearly half an hour, to make sure. The light has moved up the side of her wall, and I know full darkness is close, but I can¡¯t wait for it.


    As slow as I can manage, I creep to the chair. Chimera¡¯s back rises and falls, rises and falls.


    I lift one glove and pull the material inside out. Then the other.


    There¡¯s nothing in there, no bloodstains. You maniac.


    The floorboard beneath me hitches, though I swear I haven¡¯t moved. I return the gloves and race back to my bed, not caring whether I make noise, and roll towards the wall just as I hear her shift and sniff a little before stilling again.


    Nothing, nothing, nothing. I tell myself to sleep. Of course, there was nothing there.


    Maybe I imagined everything, and Bug and Jazmir were only caught up in my headiness. I¡¯m not used to the darkness out here, the silvery shadows. The abnormal quiet that pounds away at my head when I stop to think about what secrets such conditions hide.