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January 2021

The Director

Alora prepares to begin her career in a world where birth and genetic engineering determine your future Alora sighed and twirled her mocha-colored curls through her fingers. She glanced at the large wall clock in front of her, hanging above the door to the grand office in which she sat. Half past eleven, it read. Her heart lurched inside her. Had it really been half an hour? Her stomach rolled over inside her and her vision grew spotty. Desperately, she grabbed the edge of the mahogany desk, its edge digging into her palm. She fought to remember the breathing techniques she’d been taught: 1, 2, inhale, 1, 2, 3, exhale. Slowly, Alora refocused and regained the sunny disposition she was supposed to have. Wary now, she checked the clock again. Yes, it read 11:30. She sighed. The Chancellor was thirty minutes late to the meeting. And on her first day too. Alora rolled her eyes— though she knew she shouldn’t scoff at someone so powerful—and reached across the desk for the intercom. It turned on with a buzz, and a Secretary downstairs picked up. “Yes, madam?” asked a crackly voice. “I am inquiring about the punctuality of the Chancellor of Trade, to see whether he is due to arrive soon or not.” She phrased the request as a statement, not a question, as she’d been taught by her father. “I am sorry, madam. I have no information on the whereabouts of the Chancellor. I shall inform you if I receive further details.” “Thank you. That will be all.” With another buzz, the intercom switched off. Alora rubbed her eyes out of pure stress, though carefully so as not to smudge her makeup, and then looked around the room. The walls were a simple white, and except for her desk, a chair for a visitor, and a bookshelf, the room was sparse. Behind the desk were floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the city beyond. Alora had to admit that despite its dizzying size, Metropolia was a beautiful city. Previously, it had been called New York City, a rather ugly name; however, after the Famine, it had been rebranded as part of the neo- Greek trend. Metropolia was a hub of international trade and society. It was the perfect place to build a company, like Alora’s father had. Her father. The thought caused her vision to go spotty again, and before she could stop it, Alora was pulled into her memories. Eliezer Bennet had been a great mogul in his day. He had built his company, PROvide, from the ground up, developing new, safe sporting equipment for the Athletes. Of course, he didn’t do the actual designing—he wasn’t meant to—but he was the face of the company. Now he was nearing the end of his days, reduced to a weak old man. Alora remembered when she was little, asking him why he had to die someday. “Plenty of people are altered to live longer, Papi,” she’d told him. They were sitting on the sofa in their penthouse, watching the sun go down over the city. “I know,” he’d said. “But I can’t.” She’d looked up at him with her big brown eyes. “Why?” He wouldn’t meet her gaze. “That’s the way it is. The company needs to move on. You know that you will run the company after I’m gone; you’re meant to.” Then he had looked down at her. “And you’ll do a great, great job!” Not long after, her schooling had begun. She’d been homeschooled, as most children were, so as to fit her needs. She had learned some science, and how to read and write and do arithmetic, but mostly she was trained to be a Director. And here she was, fourteen years old, in the final stages of her training. Today, after all, was her first time directing. She was to have a meeting with the Chancellor as practice for running the company. That was not to say the meeting wasn’t real; it was indeed about exporting equipment to Europe. Her first time directing, Alora thought, and Papi wasn’t there to see her. He was sleeping on the sofa at home, his body trying to fight off a genetic disease he wouldn’t survive. That was the way it went. Alora felt tears brimming in her eyes and was brought back to the present by the ringing of the intercom. Reminded that she couldn’t break down here, Alora brushed the tears away and pressed the intercom. “Yes?” Her voice sounded shaky. “Madam, I have just received word from the Chancellor’s Secretary.” “And?” “He regrets to inform you that due to an unexpected conflict, the Chancellor will not be able to make your meeting.” Alora almost breathed a sigh of relief. She was in no condition to have a meeting. “Thank you for the information.” “Oh,” she added, because she knew it was the right thing to do, “please relay to the Secretary that he should make rescheduling a top priority.” “Yes, madam.” “That will be all.” The intercom buzzed off, and this time Alora allowed herself a sigh as she sank back into her chair. She’d expected to feel calm and at peace now that she didn’t have the meeting, but part of her was sad. For all its stress, she liked directing, liked being in charge. And she was good at it. Of course she was designed to, just like Athletes were designed to play sports and Secretaries to schedule appointments and answer phone calls, but that didn’t bother her. It was the way of life. She wasn’t exactly sure why she’d brought her briefcase, since it wasn’t as if she was going to paint (she wasn’t an Artist) or write poetry (she wasn’t an Author) but all Directors carried briefcases, and it gave her a feeling of power. Alora pulled up her monitor to see what paperwork she had left and was relieved to find nothing to do. Paperwork, however important, was tedious, and Alora did not