When the Tsade subgene is activated, as it is during the natural conception of a child, a green marking resembling a vine will appear on the skin in one of the 256 documented locations. Thus it is always possible to differentiate between the substandard Dohgah and the superior-designed Kilim. --Edward’s Complete Guide to Genetic Structure
Forty-seven days and sixteen hours to freedom.
I counted them. Forty-seven days and sixteen hours to my 21st birthday, and in forty-seven days and twenty hours, I’ll sign my name with a flourish and catch the nearest shuttle outbound.
I shift on the knobby limb of the mourning oak drooping over the stream and splash the cool water up my legs. I’m supposed to be studying interplanetary history, but while the calendar insists it’s early autumn here in northern Kaladross, the humidity of midsummer wilts my brain. So I count days. It’s easier.
My tutor, Trex Troble, raises his eyes from correcting my latest test.
Oops. Caught again. I quickly flop open my reader. No point in acquiring extra work because I “obviously don’t have enough to occupy the mind.”
A few inches above the reader’s page, three-dimensional spaceships pop up and dart around, portraying the Battle of Batham Passage from the Albino civil war. Oh delight. But Trex still watches me, so I tap the corner to scroll through the accompanying text. Most of the words fail to enter my mind’s orbit.
Distant laughter troubles the heavy air.
Not again. I glance downstream, and sure enough, my older Kilim sister emerges from among the fiery blossoms of the formal gardens. Tall, thin, and fair, Johari is considered beautiful and elegant; and more than once people have asked why she didn’t study modeling instead of politics. I know why, but no one ever asks for my opinion.
Flicking blonde hair over her shoulder, Johari snuggles closer to her latest Kilim boyfriend, a dark-skinned Brauni. Poor guy. Doesn’t he know that scalding water will burn less?
Johari waves toward the gardens and the Brauni’s gaze lands on me. Exactly as Johari planned, no doubt.
I avert my eyes to my history text. Control center, raising shields.
“Who? Her?” Johari’s voice skims over the water, a well-aimed missile. “Nothing. Just the family Dohgah.”
The familiar insult glances off my mind. “Just the family Dohgah.” As if the green, vine-like marking winding around my right arm demotes me to the rank of garden slug. My fingers clench into a fist. My sister forgets. I can be far more dangerous than any old garden slug.
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