In a futuristic society where people are differentiated and valued based on the purity of their genes, can a person define for themselves who they really are? Or does The Gene Test provide the answer for them?
Depression... Addiction... Criminality...
The herd of students begins to thin, dwindling much faster than I would hope. From my seat up in the sanctum balcony, I peer down into the judgement pit, watching the faces of joy and sorrow as students leave the station and pore over the files in their hands, providing a detailed synopsis of their Gene Test assessment.
The air is heavy with mixed emotions and the jumbled symphony of mechanical voices coming from the stations, announcing sharply for everyone to hear, "Normal, Schizophrenia, 48%" or "Border, Smoking Addiction, 8%", "Invalid, Gambling Addiction, 93%" or "Perfect, 100%".
That machine which appears like nothing more than a fancy ATM is capable of telling you exactly who you are, the value of your life which you haven't even experienced, and the rest of your future. You may have never had a sip of alcohol in your life but you are told that you are a severe alcoholic. You may have the best heart and be pegged as a future criminal. And on the other end of the spectrum, you can be the most vile human being imaginable, and still be glorified as someone without a single flaw, someone utterly perfect, as long as that machine declares it and prints it on your ID.
Only very rarely do I notice a change in tone that cuts through the sea of monotone buzz: the machine producing a different, brighter chime, announcing "transfer", denoting a change in gene status from the one they had been predetermined based on their parents' statuses. That word seems like some sort of benediction to the ears of those who procure it, causing some to even burst into tears of bewildered euphoria. That "transfer" is a sign of gene correction in their crooked family tree and a beacon of hope for higher, brighter skies.
However, in my case, that "transfer" will sound more like the toll of the clock .
Once they call the second last group down, I survey the remaining students left seated in the gallery. Most of them are Invalids, probably still too afraid to face the harsh truth, as I am, along with a handful of other Normal students scattered about the gallery seats. When I look downwards to the front tier, I'm perplexed to spot three girls still seated, and it shocks me even more to realize that it's Kera and her cronies. In this case, there practically is an express lane for her, and she doesn't want to take it?
Memories from back in that testing room yesterday flood my mind, and the pieces begin to fit in even better.
She's afraid, too.
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"Why couldn't we go with that group?" the girl on her left whined.
"Yeah, Kera, I thought you hated waiting. We've been sitting here for nearly an hour. My butt's getting numb," the other one with straight black hair piped in.
Kera didn't even turn, keeping her head facing the front as she responded dryly, "You know what I hate even more? Being stuck in the middle of a mass of noisy, sweaty Imperfects. We'll go down once the crowd has cleared."
The first girl doesn't seem to buy it. She protests in an irritated tone, "Couldn't we have just used the stations for Perfects? All the other Perfects are gone by now. They've even let those Regulars use those stations because they're free."
