***** Commander Zander Sampson; Sanctuary Mission Control, People’s Republic of California *****

Spying is not wrong. Eavesdropping is ethical. As a member of The Guard, I am morally obligated to listen and to observe their most intimate moments. I have been entrusted with the survival of a species. It’s hard work. By nature, humans are stupid. They ask questions. They wonder. If they just did what they were told, they would not be going extinct.

I stand in the center of a mission control. The orb of glass that extends from the center of the ocean receives millions of data packets per minute. Most of it is mundane—the continual recording of inconsequential human life. 99% of the time, the Sanctuary residents follow the rules. They mate when—and with who—we tell them to mate. They produce offspring. They nurture them as instructed. Once in a while, someone tries to think outside the box. They question the meaning of their life. That’s where I come in.

Real-time footage of Resident 573 appears before my eyes. The data stream projects from the organic technology inside my retinas. Subject = Ciara O’Brien. Age=20. Trigger = archive access. Keyword search = romance. Last known mate = none. Vitals = normal. Current emotional state = curious.

A ginger-haired girl stoops to pet a tiny kitten. She is dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and bright yellow running shoes. As she speaks to the creature, I scan the backdrop, analyzing each pixel carefully. The blue sea sparkles behind her. The low-hanging sun bathes the beach in a warm glow. So far, nothing is amiss.

She retrieves a smashed piece of bread from the pocket of her jeans. I note that she is extraordinary fit. In that respect, she is an anomaly. Living conditions have made humans soft.

I sense the presence of the analyst before she approaches. I wait impatiently for her explanation.

“Resident 573 shows above-average caloric burn,” the analyst begins. “According to her location device, she walks over ten miles per day.”

“Perhaps she is training for the next Iron Man competition,” I say.

“Her location-tracking device indicates that she is probing the outer limits of the wall. This behavior, paired with her refusal to mate, hints at a significant problem.”

“Today, she was searching the archives for items related to romance,” I say.

“An outdated, dangerous idea paired with her other behaviors,” the analyst adds.

It all makes sense now. Ciara O’Brien, Resident 573, is pondering the meaning of human life—a dangerous proposition for someone whose very survival depends on her ability to follow our rules.

The girl walks briskly down the ocean path. Her red curls bounce with each step. She approaches a house. It is larger than most with blue paint and white trim. The prime location of the dwelling hints as her parents’ success at following our rules.

Two small boys—red heads—jump over the upper deck. Thick cords are around their stomachs. The pair laughs as they rappel down the side of the house. It doesn’t compute. Human youth are indoctrinated with concept of their fragility. Hurling oneself down the side of one’s dwelling just doesn’t mesh with our dogma.

“Would you like to log that as a safety concern?” the analyst asks.

“Flag the family for increased observation,” I say. “Submit all conversations occurring inside the home for in-depth analysis.”

“Would you like to talk to the parents?” the analyst asks.

“Not yet.”

“Sir,” she objects. “The sole responsibility of these parents is to keep their offspring safe…”

“Exactly,” I interrupt. “If either one of those boys are injured, I will not hesitate to act. Until that point, we are not to interfere.”

“What about the girl?” the analyst asks.

“Bring her in.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

The image of the redhead dissolves. A young man appears in her place. He sits on a stone bench overlooking the Pacific. A woman is next to him. Her head rests on his shoulders.

“Residents 598 and 667,” the analyst says. “Ages 18 and 21 respectively. Genetic match = 23%—well below the established perimeter of suitability. ”

“Who is the perpetrator of the offense?” I ask.

“It appears to be a mutual event,” the analyst replies.

“Have they been advised of their incompatibility?” I ask.

“Both parties have been reprimanded four times, sir.”

“Did you advise them of the program they are eligible for once they’ve met their biological obligations?”

“Yes sir. We’ve told them twice. We promised that they can be together once they’ve produced offspring with their appropriate genetic matches.”

I exhale sharply. It’s such a waste. But resources are not infinite. If these—humans—will not follow the rules, I have no choice but to terminate them.

“Commence the euthanization procedure,” I say. “We cannot afford to allocate resources to individuals who will not comply to the code.”

***** Ciara O’Brien, Sanctuary Resident #573 *****

Mom stands in the middle of the kitchen, her bare feet pressing firmly into the hardwood floor. The dishwashing droid sits lifelessly beside the sink. Mom has always preferred to wash the dishes by hand. She says it gives her time to think.

“You missed dinner again,” she says quietly.

My heart twists at her statement but my absence cannot be helped. It’s been over a month since I learned that dinnertime conversation doesn’t necessarily stay at the dinner table.

“I had dinner with Anita,” I say.

She flinches at my reply. A lump of granite forms in the back of my throat.

“Anything interesting happen today?” she asks. She’s trying to change the subject.

I consider telling her how I almost reached the edge of the Sanctuary before a series of drones started to follow me. I decide against it. I don’t want her to worry.

“Did you meet anyone?” she presses.

“No,” I reply.

“So no matches…”

“None that were above 95%,” I say.

“They must be scouring the Sanctuary in search of the best option,” she says. “You know, because you happen to be the only red-headed female in your age group?”

There’s hope in her voice. I can’t bring myself to tell her that I’d rather take my chances on the outside than be forcefully paired with someone for the rest of my life.

“How close were you and dad in terms of genetic match?” I ask.

She grimaces. The soapy plate she is holding slips from her fingertips. Reaching out, I snatch it from the air before it hits the ground.

“Nice,” she says. There’s approval in her voice.

“Yeah, well,” I say, handing back the plate. “I learned from the best.”

She smiles at me. I study her intently. Although her eyes are emerald green like mine, they are dull and sad. It’s as though all her zeal, her passion has been drained away. Then her mask snaps into place. Any true emotion is immediately covered by a careful expression.

“Your father was—and still is—my best possible match,” she says slowly. “We’ve done out duty. We have produced three amazing, ginger-haired children. We have been rewarded. We live in one of the biggest houses in the Sanctuary. We’ve achieved the human dream.”

“Do you ever wonder if there’s more to it?” I ask. “Like maybe there a bigger purpose than just propagating the human race in a world that doesn’t seem to want us anymore?”

She dries her hands and then steps over to me. She cups my face. Her fingers feel unusually warm against my skin. When she speaks, her voice is thick.

“Oh honey…”

Three sharp beeps pierce the silence. Mom turns abruptly toward the sink.

“Go get your brothers,” she commands. “Tell them to brush their teeth and get their pajamas on before the lights go out.”

Laughter greets me as I step out onto the deck. Little feet thud against the siding as my brothers bunny-hop down the side of the house. They land in a giggling pile of arms and legs. A drone zips along overhead, jumping from angle to angle like a puppy looking to play.

“Time to come in!” I call out.

There’s an explosion of laughter as they climb back up. They are ignoring me because I am white noise. Two sharp beeps reverberate through the air. The entire neighborhood falls silent. Then it happens, the collective sound of people rushing inside as they work to beat the clock.

The boys climb up the rope. They jump over the railing and onto the deck. We hurry inside. The sliding glass door hisses. I jump over the threshold just as, like a row of dominos, all the locks click into place.

“Okay, into the bath, both of you,” mom directs. “No one wants the experience of brushing their teeth in the dark. Go! Go! Go!”

One of the twins stretches with leisure.

“One…” mom spats, her teeth clenched. “Two…”

The boys hurry off toward the bathroom, whooping like a pack of hyenas in the process.

“You too, Ciara,” she says. “You have been on this planet for almost 2 decades. I should not have to tell you to get ready for bed.”

A soccer ball sits abandoned in the hall. I give it a bicycle kick. My legs fly over my head as I shoot the ball through my bedroom door. It lands on my bed with a soft thud. Goal!

I brush my teeth and wash my face. I look into the mirror. A person stuck in a chasm between adulthood and adolescence stares back. My eyes are green, my face is dotted with too many freckles, and my hair cascades down my back in ringlets of red. In a world where the races have melted together to produce legions of caramel-skinned, blonde haired humans, I am an anomaly.

The walls shake as the warning siren issues its final beep. The house groans. The power goes out. Total darkness blankets my room. I grope around until my fingers brush against the thick cotton of my comforter. I slide into bed. As my head hits the pillow, I try not to stare at the small red light embedded in my ceiling. I try not to think about how my life is broadcast across the world for the viewing pleasure of strangers.

When I open my eyes again, the blinking red light is gone. As Vigilante has promised, the red light only blinks for fifteen minutes after the lights go out. I suck in air. As I do every night, I prepare to bet my life on this wild assumption.

The soccer ball is still on my bed. I cradle the sphere in my arm. My fingers probe the surface until they brush against the curled edges of the sticker. Carefully, I peel it away. The lithium chip hidden beneath is no bigger than a breath mint.

Every morning, I tape the chip to my brother’s soccer ball. As they play, the chip absorbs the energy of their movement. It’s not much, but it is enough to power a light bulb or a small computer for a few hours. It’s such a simple solution to the night black outs. I wonder why the Sanctuary hasn’t implemented the concept on a large scale.

With the chip securely clenched in my fist, I inch toward the edge of my bed and drop over the side. As soon as I hit the floor, I roll under the bed. My fingers group around in the darkness until they brush against the device’s unappealing outer shell.

I’m told that hundreds of years ago, this thing, called a laptop, was a coveted device. The machine feels awkward and heavy in my hands. I don’t understand how humans would have willfully carried these things with them wherever they went.

I plug in the chip. The ancient machine whirs to life as it labors through its boot sequence. I jump onto the single available wireless network and bounce my signal across the globe before tunneling deep into the dark web.

There’s a sharp click—as though the house locks have been disengaged. Heavy footsteps thud outside my room. I slam the laptop shut. My heart hammers as I roll out from under the bed. The glass door in room my slides open. I tunnel underneath my covers. They are in my room now. My head hits my pillow. Gloved hands grasp my shoulders. I open my eyes and come face to face with a man dressed completely in black. Something pierces my skin. I cry out. Warmth spreads from the center of my chest. I struggle to breathe as the world around me goes dark.