Colorado Springs, Colorado 2223 A.D.
Start with the eyes.
I’ve been playing the “mirror game” my entire life. I don’t even remember how or why it started, but every day I look at myself in the mirror to remind myself that we are made in God’s image.
Icy blue eyes like grandma, but with extra sparkles - just like Mom’s.
Designed by God, so I can see the wonder of His creation.
Slender hands and fingers.
Used to do the Lord’s work.
Thin, pink lips.
To speak the truth.
Bouncy red ponytail.
Just to make one man smile.
Thinking of him makes me lose my place. I miss him. I place my com in my ear and do what has typically become the last part of the daily ritual.
“Computer, search all worldwide networks and locate Cephas Paulson.”
“You’re so smart … find him yourself,” the com replies.
“Austin,” I sigh under my breath.
My kid brother has reprogrammed my com again. However he did it, the code is so deeply embedded that it pops up randomly no matter how many times I attempt to purge it. I attempt yet another purge, and continue with my morning routine while I wait.
First on is the make-up. Using it, I put a large purple blotch on the right side of my face and another on my right hand. Next up are the “living scars,” which I created by genetically recombining plant cell walls with a bacteria engineered to produce a sticky polymer. They stick to my skin nicely, but the oozing polymer is pretty gross. Austin says that having scars that ooze and grow over the course of a day makes them more realistic.
When I’m done, I look over my handiwork. Nobody would question whether I’m truly one of “The Marked.” Before I was born, a man named Henry tried to kill me, and everyone like me, by releasing a deadly toxin into the water and the air. To make sure only his enemies died, he also made a “vaccine” containing some extra DNA that spelled out his great-grandfather’s name.
Henry thought it was a great joke, but that extra DNA turned out to be a true “mark of the beast.” Within a few years, everyone who had taken the vaccine was showing signs of its effect. Some died from scars on their internal organs; many will have their lives shortened by decades; all have permanent bruises and scars that never quite heal, like the ones I’ve replicated.
My parents received a different vaccine long before I was born, a vaccine created by the Christian group “Four.” The Four vaccine didn’t contain the extra bit of DNA. That makes me one of “The Washed.” It also makes me a target every time I go onto the street.
When the long-term effects of the mark of the beast vaccine first became apparent, washed Christians proudly displayed their new status. They could walk down the street without wearing a hat and could go sleeveless because their skin was free of unhealed bruises. Unfortunately, they didn’t always treat “The Marked” in the way Christ taught us to treat everyone - with love.
Then came the babies. It was no surprise that both The Marked and The Washed passed those genes on to their children. What no one foresaw was that washed genes are dominant. My children will be “washed,” whether their father is marked or not; but like any recessive gene, it could show up in later generations, if I were to marry a marked man. For that reason alone, most of The Washed started to date and marry only those who are also washed.
Scientists worked for years on gene therapies to reverse the mark of the beast, but failed. That’s when Christian men and women started donating eggs and semen. I was young, but I remember how wonderful it seemed at first. The spirit of giving a gift of life was all around, with donation centers springing up in every city. Then came the realization that demand exceeded supply by many millions of times. Bidding wars erupted among the rich, as they clambered to obtain ‘washed’ samples. Rape and kidnapping followed. People would do anything to have a washed child. We were no longer people. We were a commodity.
And so we hide.
My com indicates that it has reset; so I repeat my previous question.
“Cephas Paulson is not visible on any worldwide networks,” it responds.
“How about Martha Paulson?”
“Martha Paulson is also not visible.”
“Cindi Stone? James Stone? Geoff Stone?”
I list them and a half dozen others.
“None of the listed individuals are visible,” the computer says.
“Cephas Paulson - where are you?” I yell.
My brother Austin walks into the room and puts his arm around my shoulder. At just sixteen, he’s nearly a foot taller than me. I put my head onto his shoulder and he puts his head down on top of mine.
“It’s time to face it, Jocie. We’re on our own,” he says.
But I still need you, Daddy…
******
I knew something was wrong before Austin and I even left on our trip to visit Aunt Cindi and Uncle Cameron in Nebraska. As always, it was Mom’s behavior that tipped me off, and it wasn’t any one thing. It was more like a hundred little things that didn’t go together just right. It wasn’t a single thing she did; her routine was as normal as ever. It was her voice, and the way she watched me and Austin. It made me feel like we were going away forever, rather than just a week. Then Dad started inviting me with him, everywhere he went. He knew what I was seeing, because he could see it too, and he didn’t want me observing Mom’s behavior and putting pieces together. Like so many other times, I decided to just enjoy spending the time with him, trusting that whatever was happening, it was playing out according to some plan.
The night Austin and I returned from Nebraska, it was clear that something was wrong when neither Mom nor Dad were at the tube station waiting for us. Austin’s hand was halfway to placing a com into his ear to contact them, when I grabbed it and told him not to do anything that could be traced.
We walked home and snuck up on the house through the neighbor’s bushes. The front door was wide open, but there were no signs that anyone was home. After an hour, a Corps team showed up, but they seemed as mystified as we were. We heard them report that the house had been ransacked and that there were signs of a struggle inside.
After that, we came here, to an abandoned house where Dad told us to go if we ever needed a safe place to hide. The water and electricity are on, and we found a small supply of dried food that got us through the first day until we could get something better at the local food center.
Like every day since, we leave our hiding place and walk towards the house where we grew up, waiting for an opportunity to go inside and see for ourselves how Mom and Dad could have disappeared.
As the children of Cephas and Martha Paulson, you’d think it would be impossible for Austin and I to walk down the street without being recognized. Mom and Dad had made too many public appearances to hide the fact that Mom was pregnant with us, but we were both born at home and our DNA was never added to the national database. Of course, enhancements were also out of the question.
Mom and Dad worked hard our entire lives to ensure our anonymity in the secular community, but things are different within the Christian community. Among Christians, Austin is something of a rock star and the heir apparent to the Paulson family legacy. It’s a role he sometimes relishes a little too much for my taste.
Our daily walking route takes us near the campus district, and we walk past a for-profit genetic testing and donation center. The amount you get paid varies with the quality of your genes.
“Do you have any idea how much a sample from me is worth?” Austin whispers.
“Not enough to risk getting kidnapped and used as a stud horse for the rest of your life.”
“Hey! Just because nobody would want your rotten eggs …”
He shuts his mouth when someone abruptly opens a door close enough to overhear what he might say next. I’m used to this from Austin. From the time he could speak, our relatives have been telling him how special he is and how he’ll one day do important things. Next to him, I’m treated like a disappointment. I can handle the second-class treatment from the rest of the family, but it’s painful when it comes from Dad. There are times when I catch him looking at me and his face can only be described as a bottomless well of sadness.
It’s as if Dad is the only person in the world who knows a terrible secret about me.
I’ve mentioned it to Mom and Austin, but neither of them can see it. I’ve tried to point out that sometimes, even when he’s laughing, you can still see the sadness. Sometimes it’s just a millimeter movement of his eyebrow that tips me off. Mom and Austin say I’m imagining it.
As we turn onto our old street, Austin takes my hand. To anyone else, we probably look like a young couple who are out for a walk. They’d probably also think that Austin is nervous about holding a girl’s hand, because his fingers are moving non-stop. In fact, he’s talking to me using a complex code of finger movements that we developed after Mom and Dad disappeared.
Yes, I see the man on the right, I signal back with my fingers. He’s ex-Corps. Give him a wide berth and look the other direction as we pass him.
The members of The Corps were the first to receive the “mark of the beast” vaccine, but unlike the general population, their dose was injected, rather than given in pill form. They all have dark lines that radiate out from the injection site on their upper arms. In most cases, the lines extend across their shoulders and necks, and onto their faces. The lines will continue to grow for the rest of their lives. Skin-altering enhancements help some, but the lines can never be completely erased.
They’re not all evil, Austin replies.
Tell that to the scars on Dad’s back, I say, and he drops the subject.
In truth, a large percentage of The Corps converted to Christianity after what happened to Dad because they were given the new task of protecting the faithful. Daniel, one of the guards who beat and whipped Dad, even leads a large church in Iowa that we once visited when I was young. He had two of the lines across his face. I couldn’t believe it when Dad hugged him. I wanted to run and never look at him or those black lines again, but I pretended to like him - for Daddy’s sake.
It’s the members of The Corps who left government service that have always worried Mom and Dad more. They call themselves “The Temple Guard” and claim to be a peaceful group, dedicated to informing the public about the dangers of religion. The black lines tell us everyone who served in The Corps, but they can’t tell us who they serve now.
There’s another, Austin says with his fingers, as we turn the corner onto our old street. The woman smiles pleasantly as she passes us on the sidewalk. The black line from her injection only reaches up to just under her ear and is covered with heavy makeup, but it’s easy to see when you’re looking for it.
As always, there’s a car with a man in it parked in front of our house. He’s younger than the others, so he doesn’t have the black marks, but he has scars and blotches that mark his inheritance.
One hand, Austin says. You’d need both hands, plus a foot.
Austin is referring to how little effort it would take for him to disable the young man in the car - and teasing me at the same time. As part of hiding us, Mom and Dad regularly sent us to “summer camp” to train with our Aunt Cindi, her husband, Cameron, and our many cousins. They live on a big property on Lake McConaughy in Nebraska that’s equipped with all sorts of training facilities. After the government insisted that all Four houses be disbanded, it was the only place left to send us.
Austin gets a full combat training regimen whenever we’re there, while the best I can ask for is intense physical training, including hours of running, weight lifting, and obstacle courses. Aunt Cindi says that I have the highest strength-to-weight ratio she’s ever seen, but what good is muscle if I’m never trained how to fight my way out of a rape or kidnapping?
Why don’t I just take them all out while you go search the house? Austin asks. You know Mom or Dad must have left something inside that will help us to find them.
Because we’re washed. Staying hidden is our best weapon.
Dad didn’t stay hidden, Austin replies, but I don’t respond. Mom has always said that one of my jobs is to protect Austin - including from himself.
As we turn the corner at the end of the street, Austin drops my hand and we return to speaking aloud.
“We can’t just walk past the house every day, waiting for something to happen,” Austin says. “We need to do something, Jocie. We need a plan.”
“You’re the favorite child. You come up with a plan.”
“You’re the one who inherited Dad’s talent with puzzles. Shouldn’t you have it all figured out by now?”
Like I said, Daddy … I need you…