Chapter 1.2

Chapter 1.

A leaflet is pushed through the Mail Receiver in our Dwelling.  It shines like greasy, slick card and is covered in a montage of gaudy colours displaying an advertisement for Permanent Iris Dying.  Only 40,000 Coins.  Bargain.  Possible side effects include: Blindness (visual, metaphorical and psychological), distorted vision, pain, headaches and bankruptcy.

As my Father pulls it slowly from the slot, I hear it burst into tinny, harmonised voices, singing the PR spin, explaining the benefits that the “life changing surgery” could bring.

Bull.

Everyone who is anyone knows that it takes a hell of a lot more than a dyed eyeball to change your Status and Category.

Like genetics.

Like birth.

Not that it matters to me.  I’m alright.  I’m a Cat B.  Simple, middle of the road.  I don’t stand out, no wigs or dyes required.  I fit the bill, the proforma, a textbook Cat B.  Dark brown hair; hazel eyes; pale, milky skin without a trace of olive hues (they were wiped out years ago).  A typical Brunite.  I know my place and I am perfectly happy sitting in it.

My Father, a Category B: Adult Positive, sits back down at our mock-wood table, sighing into his tea.  He frowns slightly as he lifts the standard issue plain, blue cup to his lips and sips the hot liquid.  He doesn’t speak, he’s barely even looking in my direction; his eyes were focused on the Panel on the wall.

The Panel shows the activity tracking for all members of the Dwelling.  My brother, Alexis, listed as doing his daily Exercise Circuit; my Mother working the Night Shift at the Hospital.  She is a Matron, something archaic that Community brought back when they were established.  The timer counts down till the end of her shift.  2 hours 37 minutes.  My Father was leaving in 37 of those minutes for his daily commute into the City for his Employment in Aerodynamics Engineering.  He works in the Department of Community Transportation, ensuring the Metros that keep our City, Arcane, connected are punctual and efficient.

Personally, I am loitering over my breakfast, stalling the time till I have to complete some Independent Study before I catch my morning Metro to my Upper Juvenile Institution for Education (13 – 17 years).  I have Numerics to revise for as we were due one of our fortnightly Assessments of Progress.  I’m not worried.  I’m naturally capable in Numerics, top ten percentile in my class, with a predicted future Employment in Accounting and Finance.  How typically boring and regular.

Exactly 35 minutes later I hear, from my Sleeproom, my Father getting ready to leave for Employment.  I could hear him open the closet door and grab his overcoat and hat.  Rain had been predicted on the Panel and he had a good ten minute walk from his Metro stop to his office.  He shouts a vague goodbye to me and my brother, who had returned to the Dwelling to shower and prepare for his day at Transitional Training Education.  The door slams shut behind him.  My Father had seemed distant this morning, but I shrug it off to his disrupted sleeping pattern, as he never sleeps well when my Mother is on a Night Shift.

I return my attention to my Study and my Visual Education Oculars.  I hate wearing them, but even I have to admit that they do stop procrastination and distraction.

A beeping in my ears advises me that my Independent Study time was over and that I was to set off for Education.

My brother and I accompany each other to the Metro station most mornings.  This is our “bonding time” as our Mother calls it.  Generally this is the time when my dashing cad of a brother fills me in with his ever so exciting dating life.  “So, she said she had never seen one in real life before.  What did I have to lose?  I said ‘look, Caitlin, I have one right here, in my pocket, wanna see it?’  Didn’t think that she would react that way...” and on his narration went.

I nod, feigning interest, preoccupied with thoughts of Numerics.  All of Alexis’ stories were the same.  If it wasn’t for his incessant recording and transcription of all ‘worthy’ conversations, logged on his Dictaphone, then I’d peg him for a liar.  He says it for his book that he intends to write, once he begins his Employment, (Allocated Employment: Moderated Journalist).  He is perfect for it.  His Linguistics are in the top 5 percentile of his age group.  Alexis was sailing through this semester of his second year, at Transition Training Education.  The Instructors love him, have always loved him.  They delight in sending their glowing Reports to our parents, raving about his amazing, outgoing nature and unrivalled Attitude to Learning.  They are always a little disappointed when I arrive two scholastic years later, happy to be nondescript, average and unnoticed.  The comparisons have continued throughout our Juvenile years; “He is the polar opposite of Alexis,” “if only he would challenge himself, like Alexis,” “Joseph is far too comfortable blending in, unlike his older brother...” I grew to ignore it.

We walk up to the steps of the platform that headed East, towards the City, Alexis’ platform.  I bid him a good day and cross over the shimmering metal tracks that were humming with electricity and late summer heat, towards my platform that heads West.  I ascend the steps to the platform and stand behind the yellow line.  There are 3 minutes before the next Metro would arrive.  I watch the other passengers filter onto the concrete around me, their faces a mass of same shade beige and hair a thicket of standard browns.  My area was only populated with Category Bs.  The sameness was boring.

2 minutes.  I watch the steel grey and yellow shuttle pull to a silent stop at the opposite platform, which takes Alexis into the City daily. I hear the faint sound of the Scheduling Announcement over the murmur of conversations between commuters, “This is the Metro for Arcane City.  This Metro will call at the following stations...”

1 minute. The platform I am stood on is getting busy.  I can see my Metro arriving, creeping through the heat haze that the electric tracks are generating.  The Scheduling Announcement sounds and the doors slide open seamlessly.  I step inside into the busy calm of the air conditioned shuttle, surrounded by a swarm of Category Bs.