I wear my sunglasses inside the restaurant. An old movie called ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’ streams across the lenses. I wonder what it would be like to fall in love, to be with someone because of how you feel rather than being forcefully paired off with your best genetic match.
“Sorry I’m late,” my friend Anita says. “I was busy doing my part to further the survival of the human race.”
I catch the scent of lavender as she sinks into her seat. I remove my glasses. Anita’s dark curls cascade around her caramel shoulders as she summons the drink menu from the touchscreen tabletop.
“Chardonnay sounds good, doesn’t it?” she asks. “Would you like to split a bottle?”
I shrug. Normally, I’m a root beer float kind of person, but I know Anita is bent on telling me about her latest battle in our war against human extinction. Listening to the explicit story is best when paired with a cold glass of wine.
In high school, Anita was an honors student, editor of the news blog, and all-around teacher’s pet. She was the person who carefully colored inside the lines. She’s dived in to her biological obligation with both feet. If there’s a rule to follow or a requirement to be met, my best friend is all over it.
A caretaker in a white lab coat hurries over to the table. “Not so fast, Ms. Warnock,” she says crisply. “We need to see if you've conceived." She kneels before Anita. Her eyes, one purple and one green, dart over my friend like a viper's tongue.
“Did I do it?” Anita asks hopefully. “Am I pregnant?”
“Unfortunately no,” the woman says. “Your body temperature is up and all biological indicators point to ovulation; however, you are not pregnant. I'm going to recommend that you try again with a different man within the next 26 hours."
A white drone descends from the ceiling. It clutches a frosted bottle of wine between metal talons. It deposits the uncorked-bottle onto the table before turning its empty eye toward the woman in white.
“Negative,” the woman announces, speaking directly to the drone. “But a very good effort. She’s going to keep trying. Right, Anita?”
Anita’s eyes glisten with tears. She nods. The drone pours liquor into delicate glass goblets. The woman walks efficiently over to my side of the table. Her name is embroidered across the breast of her immaculate white coat. I never bother to read the name. Humans have names. Pets have names. Things like her should not have names.
She examines me intently. Her organic technology assesses my temperature, blood pressure, heart rate, and other vital signs.
“Looks like you’ve been quite active today, Ms. O’Brien,” she murmurs. “Are you thinking of participating in the next Coast Side Triathlon?”
“Maybe,” I lie. “It is on my bucket list.”
She purses her lips. I study her anxiously. Will she call my bluff? The woman touches me. I feel the delicate tangle of organic wiring that stretches out beneath the skin of her ivory fingertips.
“All biological functions are normal," she says. "You are in perfect physical shape. Given your current metabolic rate, anything from Menu C is available." Menu C flashes across the tabletop. Pizza, pasta, and molten lava chocolate cake top the menu.“I do see that you have failed to mate with anyone. Is there a problem there, Ms. O'Brien?"
“Everything is fine,” I answer hastily.
“Just so you know: the men seated at tables 3, 1, and 9 are genetically suitable matches with Number 9 is your best bet for producing a ginger-haired child. Since you are the only ginger female in your age group, we are counting on you to do your duty. You don’t want those recessive genes to die with you. Do you?”
I want to scream. I want to push her away and rage against my fate. It’s not my fault that humans are going extinct. I personally did not unleash the plague that wiped out most of the human population. I did not invent these—things—that are more robot than human. It’s so unfair to place this heavy burden on me. I look at Anita. Her face is drawn into a perturbed expression. She seems older than her 20 years. How dare they place that same burden on her?
“I’m prescribing an increase in your daily dosage of SKY. When the time comes, all you have to do it take it and let biology take over. Do you think you can do that, Ciara?”
“I shall do my best,” I say.
“Excellent,” the woman smiles. “Okay then. I’ll leave you two to it. Enjoy your meal.”
The woman weaves her way among the sea of tables and disappears around the corner. Outside the large window, ocean waves smash against the sand. Laughing children wade into the foamy surf. A drone hovers overhead while kids climb through a beached fishing vessel. I feel another stab of irritation. I was not the one who overfished and reduced our oceans into sparkling blue dead zones.
“I guess I’ll have the kale salad with warm goat cheese,” Anita sighs. “How on earth did you manage to burn over 3000 calories today?”
“Beats me,” I say with a shrug. I know that if I admit to the truth, I will be killed.
She taps her fingertips on the tabletop touchscreen and orders her dinner. I do the same. I feel the eyes of the men at tables 3, 1, and 9 upon me.
“How was today?” I ask.
“I got through it,” she says after taking a big sip of wine. “The doctor is right. SKY really helps. When it’s your turn, make sure you dose before you start.”
“Do you ever wonder if there’s more to mating than just repopulating the human race?” I ask.
She looks at me and blinks. I tap the tabletop. A video clip of ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’ flickers to life.
“Check these two out,” I say. “They are in love.”
“Are they mother and son?” she asks.
“No,” I reply. “They are mates.”
“I don’t get it,” Anita says.
“Just watch the video,” I suggest.
Anita studies the screen. A frail-looking woman is out in the rain. Her clothes are soaked as she searches for her cat. The man rushes to her, envelopes her in his arms, and declares his love. They share a passionate kiss. Music sounds. The screen fades to black.
“I can’t believe they keep that in the archives,” Anita says. “It’s such an antiquated concept.”
“It’s part of our human history,” I counter.
“Yeah, but it fills people like you with ideas.”
“What do you mean, people like me?” I ask.
She puckers as though she’s tasted something sour. “Renegades.”
“I am not a renegade,” I protest.
“Oh yeah?” she counters. “You have potential genetic matches sitting at tables 1, 3, and 9. They are young. They are handsome. You have SKY and the green light to experiment with any of them. Yet you sit here with me.”
“I’m just not feeling it today,” I say.
“You don’t feel up to it any day,” she interrupts. “Look, I’m only saying this because I care about you. We live in this little slice of heaven because we serve one purpose: to ensure the survival of the human race. Do you know what happens to people who don’t do their duty?”
“No.”
“Neither do I,” she sniffs. “Because everyone here does their duty.”
I purse my lips as my brain parses through an array of acceptable responses. I know that nothing I say will sway Anita away from her opinion. It doesn’t matter that she’s being controlled on a very personal level. All that matters is that she gets as husband as well as the big house with the 2.5 children.
Our dinner descends from the sky. White drones lower plates onto the table. I greedily grab my crispy tofu burger. The bun is buttery. The tofu crunches pleasantly between my teeth. I dip a sweet potato French fry into a container of creamy white sauce and savor the combination.
Anita drains her wine glass and then raises a forkful of greens to her mouth. A drone appears with a long-stemmed red rose and drops it next to Anita’s plate. The digital signature reads, from Toby Smith. Genetic match = 91%. Table 6. Anita and I both turn toward Table 6. A man with blonde hair and blue eyes smiles his greeting. The collar on his polo shirt hints that he is of the upper class. Anita beams as she accepts her good fortune.
“Finally I get someone better than those surfer guys I’ve been paired with,” she gushes. “Think of the big house! Think of our beautiful children playing in the large back yard!”
Imagine a lifetime trapped with someone you didn’t choose, I think.
Anita reaches into her purse, retrieves a small silver box, and selects a pill.
“Want some SKY?” she asks.
“No, I’m good,” I reply.
“You sure?” she asks. “The guy at table 9 is really cute.”
“I’m not in the mood,” I say.
“That’s what SKY is for, silly,” she says with a grin. “It makes you be in the mood.”
“I’m good,” I insist.
“Okay, well, I’d better get to it,” she says.
She hugs me. I can sense her excitement. It’s as though she just won the school raffle. She picks up her wine glass and sashays over to table 6. A drone swoops in, scoops up her plate, and follows. I slump in my chair as I slide my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose.
20th century romance movies, I command silently.
In response to my thought, still images taken from movie scenes flash across the lenses. I blink, dismissing each one until I settle on a black and white film. I take another bite of my tofu burger and settle in, all the while wondering what it would be like to live in a world where you were free to choose who you loved.