“Yeah, I think we position ourselves toward the rear of the crowd. When the lead expires, the bulls will flank us—they almost always do, so we don’t want to be in the very back. They’ll cut us down. But I think we make a play toward the northwestern quadrant of the field. There’s cover there, and lots of different terrain. My information indicates there’s an angel in those woods as well. Now, if we can just get to him…”
Bryan made a second appraisal of his new friend. The man might be slight, but he was razor sharp. Despite the sleepy eyes and quick grin, he had a bit of timber wolf in him. Bryan could only guess what kind of man he was outside of all this madness.
“Jesus,” he said reverently. “An angel.”
“That’s what my contact said, anyway. We’ll see if we can find him. The bulls will try to cut our number in half in that first hour. If we make it to 3:00 p.m., we just might have a chance.”
Men were beginning to assemble near the entrance to the field. Fausto and Bryan cut into the crowd and worked toward a position near the back of the throng. The junior cadets had finished processing and were locking down the chutes.
“Welcome,” a voice said, booming over the landscape from a pair of speakers on either side of a digital jumbotron, “to the miracle of the birthing process.”
A groan rose from the crowd at the sound of the Chancellor’s voice. The most vocal supporter of Equality Enhancement and Population Control yet, Adrian Carson was anathema to the men forced to wager their lives for the chance to raise a family. Her severe features—sharp, angular nose and Patrician cheek bones, filled the screen. She had icy blue eyes; Bryan thought he detected a hint of glee in them.
“You have been chosen today to experience the sacrifice and struggle of what it means to become a parent. For the last nine months, your spouse or partner has devoted herself to the health and development of your child. She has forsaken many of the comforts of our modern existence and endured great physical pain and transition for the singular purpose of bearing your child.
“Now, it’s your turn to join her on this journey.”
Another groan.
“Go fuck yourself!” someone shouted. Bryan watched as one of the bulls raised his head, scanning the crowd for the perpetrator.
“You have my sincere congratulations on making it this far. For twelve months, you’ve avoided caffeine, alcohol and tobacco. You’ve gone without comforting medications and you’ve subjected yourself to the Authority’s most realistic equality technology to date—the sleep interval disrupter.”
“Jesus. That thing,” Fausto muttered; Bryan merely nodded in agreement.
“As you are well aware, the world’s population has expanded beyond our planet’s capacity to sustain a healthy global community. America, in concert with the New Global Initiative, is a foundational participant in the Darwin Culling Process.”
Carson paused there in her recorded speech, no doubt aware that the largest protests would follow her statement.
“It is time to return to the principles that made this country great,” she continued, that smile expanding on the screen, her perfect canine teeth impossibly white, “survival of the fittest. It is time for you to share in the pain and the euphoria of a successful Labor process.
“The Darwin Culling Process has met with great success. Our society no longer takes its children for granted. Our culture is no longer scarred by the residual effects of children whose parents have little use for them. Parenthood has taken its rightful place at the forefront of American life. Only the strongest may have children. Only the strongest survive Labor.”
A hush fell over the crowd as the words found their mark. Men turned to regard each other—allies in an ordeal that would mark them for the rest of their lives. Bryan knew the statistics showed that about 5% of those assembled were trying for a second child. The enormity of going through Labor twice was staggering.
“I wish you luck in your journey. The clock began to expire with the noon siren. If you evade Authority forces over the next twenty-four hours, a rich future as a father awaits you.”
Carson offered a final serene smile—simultaneously smarmy and patronizing—and then the digital screen went blank. A pair of monstrous metallic thunks shook the ground as the latches sprung on either side of the gate and the great iron wall split in two, the halves slowly sliding aside to grant entry to the Labor field.
“Ok,” Fausto said, “stay packed in close here and follow me. If we make it to the woods, we move from tree to tree. Look for something to arm yourself with. I know the bulls patrol for contraband, but you can’t keep a tree from tossing a branch. Listen to me,” he stared into the boy’s eyes, “we’ll make it, Bryan.”
Norton nodded. For the first time since he’d met the man, Fausto’s eyes were wide and alert. The iron gates inched maddeningly across the ground and finally stopped, the red light atop the gateway blinking green.
They had two minutes before the bulls began the slaughter.
The crowd emitted a dim roar as it surged through the open gate and men from all facets of life surged toward the grand ideal of fatherhood. Accountants and mechanics and school teachers and landscapers raced across the open expanse, seeking cover in the distant forest. United by their desire to raise a family, they sprinted into the future.
Bryan and Fausto went with the flow of the crowd, warily trotting into the engineered environment of the great test.
There were five Labor fields in Oregon: Eugene, Salem, Bend, Klamath Falls and Portland. In the middle of the twenty-first century, when the world’s population had exceeded eleven billion and the misery of a warm and congested Earth had made life nearly intolerable, the Darwin Initiative had gained traction.
Major American cities cleared space within their borders for immense, wooded Labor fields. In Portland, the field stretched from the banks of the Willamette River up to the university’s border and the Park Blocks—eleven square miles of treacherous terrain patrolled by 500 bulls intent on thinning the population.
If it weren’t so horrible, the irony would be humorous. The influences of man had inalterably shifted the future of the natural world. Now, man was aiding nature in restoring a balance.
They passed through the gates and onto an apron of compacted dirt. A battalion of a couple hundred bulls, clad in brown military fatigues, their automatic weapons hugged tightly to their chests, stood before a dense forest. The trees were immense, the forest a thick tangle of towering conifers and hardwoods.
Men began to sprint in earnest, Fausto and Bryan among them, for the forest as the clock ticked under a minute. Fifty-eight seconds until the culling.
“There!” Fausto shouted, pointing to the left flank of the bulls. “Pick ‘em up, Bryan! It’s going to be close!”
300 yards—maybe a little less. Men scattered, a majority sprinting directly through the columns of bulls, trying to disappear into the womb of forest. Fausto selected a spot and began to separate, running in a straight line for his goal.
The man could scoot. Bryan pumped his arms, pulling even as the voice intoned thirty seconds over the loud speaker.
They reached the line of soldiers, Bryan glancing into the eyes of the closest. The bull didn’t flinch, his gaze trained forward, staring at nothing at all. He was a machine, a simple machine without an ounce of compassion, designed to exterminate those who would dare to compound the Authority’s population problem.