Introduction:
A girl begins to wonder what’s going on at her high school
Prospects
by Virtual Scott
PrologueThe conversation was carried on in a language few people would have been able to understand, let alone speak. Translated into colloquial American English, it might have sounded something like this:
“But it is possible? Originally you said it could not be accomplished at all.”
“Possible, yes. Feasible — who knows? It is a question of adaptation. For ourselves, it is too late; we are being irreversibly poisoned by this place as we speak. For the next generation, there is hope. Perhaps. It will not be an easy task.”
“What must be done? Speak! There is no greater priority.”
“It is a question of balance. Our young are more adaptable than we are. Measured ongoing exposure — no, let me be clear, continuous exposure — during prenatal development can provide their systems with a chance to accommodate to the toxins here, allowing the child to build resistance that will last through the remainder of its life.
“That is all? Why has this not already been initiated?”
“All?” There followed what might have been called a laugh. “Perhaps you did not comprehend the nuances of my statement. Continuous prenatal exposure consistently at the required levels, within the reach of our available resources, is achievable only if native hosts are used as surrogate mothers. Considering the requirements involved and our location, we must use the dominant species for this purpose.”
“Excellent! There are millions of them, all over! The relative few we require will hardly be missed. What is the problem here?”
“There are several problems, as you would know if you spent more time studying our reports and less time studying other crewmembers. Most importantly, suitable specimens are not as easy to acquire as you imagine. First, understand this process is a very stressful one for the host, which must adapt itself to our young in the same way that the child will be adapting itself to the host and this environment. Only young, healthy hosts will be able to survive this process, even with assistance — and if the parent dies, so does the child. This, of itself, substantially reduces the available resource pool.”
“Second, considerable effort will be required to achieve implantation in the first place. The biologies are dissimilar and it is likely rejection will occur unless we can increase the levels of key compounds in the host before the implantation occurs. It is annoying that the local life forms filter these compounds readily, so constant reintroduction of them will be required. Additionally, our technical resources are inadequate to support any project of meaningful size, so implantation will need to occur naturally.”
“Mate with one of these freaks! That is what you are implying? That is outrageous and obscene!”
“That is not what I understood you to be telling that specialist last night. Nevertheless, you — or others — will need to consider this if you wish to have a future generation to perform your funeral rites. It further complicates matters that we are only barely physically compatible.”
“Third, recall the dominant species consists of two distinct sexes –“
“Disgusting! How do they mate?”
“– which procreate much the same way we do, except mating requires one of each sex, and their roles are fixed by gender. The ‘females’ unsurprisingly make up about half of the local candidate population.”
“Fourth, like ourselves, this species appears to be quite protective of its adolescents, although we have observed some conflicting data in this regard. Generally, we would be wise to assume their reactions would mirror our own. As we have discussed before, we cannot afford to agitate the local population with our presence, and our young would be most vulnerable to predation.”
“In conclusion, we require access to a relatively small demographic of the local population, one most calculated to enrage it, for an extended period of time prior to implantation and while the young are carried to term, in numbers beyond what our resources may support. Thus, I believe our survival is possible but improbable.”
“Esteemed elder, my team has considered these factors and may be able to contribute in this area.”
“That is well; share your thoughts with us.”
“In summary, we will pay them to bring their young females to us.”
“No rational being would do such a thing!”
“Ha! You speak of ‘mail order brides’?”
“I must apologize for being overly concise; allow me to restate our proposal. We will need interfaces with the local population, undoubtedly, but each presents substantially increased risk. Implemented correctly, we believe it is possible to pay ‘humans’ to perform most of the required work unwittingly, with only the most restricted amount of physical contact required.”
“What ‘implementation’ do you contemplate?”
“We suggest buying a school. Humans send their young to them on a near-daily basis for significant fractions of time. In particular, a ‘high school’ will be populated almost exclusively by adolescents who have recently reached sexual maturity. The nature of the command hierarchy at such an institution further allows us significant control over all aspects of it with relatively little exposure.”
“Surely we cannot simply buy a school? Who would send their young to be educated by untrusted unknowns?”
“Surprisingly, most local humans, it would appear. A phenomenon known as ‘charter schools’ seems be enjoying some popularity at present; it would be best, we believe, to obtain controlling interest in a private company, and encourage that company to run the school for us. If we contrive to place a suitable human in the ‘principal’ role our influence will be substantial and it should be possible to condition all humans at the school with reduced risk and effort.”
“This is possible?”
“The humans have a saying: ‘money talks.’ Conveniently for us, their monetary system is highly computerized and tangible currency is not often used in significant transactions. We suggest that …”
June“Yes, yes, Ms. Wakefield, I assure you we have considered this decision extremely carefully and the entire council is in unanimous agreement on this point.” The man in the center seat on the podium struggled to contain his exasperation. “As you know, Ms. Haskell has investigated all aspects of the proposal before the council, personally and in great detail. I believe you’ve had an opportunity to review her reports?”
The frustrated woman behind the audience microphone reiterated her point. “I just don’t think it’s right to punish our teachers because of an isolated problem or two brought on by poor parenting — and bad administration! We don’t even know these Tranco people.”
He obviously was unconvinced. Still. “I’m afraid that’s the end of the time we have reserved for public input. If the council remains in agreement” — the man looked for nods from the others seated beside him — “then by unanimous vote, Lawrence Hyde High School is designated a charter school by the Town of Springfield. Further, TRAINCO Corporation is granted the authority to operate the school for a period of 5 years, subject to review, under the terms and conditions previously disclosed and mutually agreed upon. This meeting of the Town Council is hereby adjourned; good evening.”
AugustZoe Ryan looked curiously at the sign the workers were adjusting: “Lawrence Hyde Charter High School: A TRAINCO Instructional Facility”. It topped the security gate, also still under construction, that led onto the school campus. The blonde-haired girl snapped a quick picture with her cell phone before skipping ahead a few steps to rejoin her mother, and continued scanning her surroundings as the pair followed the freshly placed signs to the administration building.
A woman behind the counter greeted them cheerfully as they entered the registration lobby. “Good afternoon, ladies, and welcome to Lawrence Hyde Charter High School! I’m Nancy; how may I assist you today?” It certainly didn’t look anything like her last school, Zoe reflected. Possibly that was the point. She hung back and let her mother carry the conversation.
“Hi, Nancy, I’m Becky Ryan and this is my daughter, Zoe. We’d like to get Zoe registered for this fall!”
Nancy beamed. “Oh, wonderful! You picked a perfect time; we were so busy last week. A transfer, right? And for what level will she be registering?” The registrar began assembling binders on the countertop.
“Eleventh grade; she’s just turned sixteen!” Zoe started tuning out the patter, hardening herself to the unwelcome commentary she expected would be coming.
It wasn’t that there was anything obviously unwelcoming about the school itself or Nancy; it was just that it was… school. Another school, like Parker High. The school she and her friend, Amber, had attended for the past two years. The school they would have attended this year except that Amber had killed herself after the sexting scandal.
Zoe still blamed herself. She’d known about the picture early, after a laughing classmate showed it to her between periods that spring. She’d figured out who’d leaked it, not for a fact, but her intuition was good, and gone to Amber. She’d let Amber talk her out of reporting it, even though she’d known her friend’s hopes that it would just die down were misplaced. She’d waited, looking for the right opportunity to report the issue. And then Amber had ended it all, and it hadn’t mattered any more who she told… and after a day or two of shocked silence, the cretins who started it all had started laughing about it again.
Now she had a new home, and a new school, and — maybe soon — new friends. It helped that her mother was a realtor, but Zoe remained dazed at the speed with which they’d uprooted and transferred to this side of town. All because her parents wanted her to attend a good school, had heard about TRAINCO, and jumped at the opportunity to enroll her here. Parker had been a good school, Zoe sulked — it was just the idiots enrolled there. There probably were idiots just like them enrolled here.
It wasn’t like TRAINCO didn’t have a good sales pitch. Zoe paid a little more attention as Nancy started rattling off the same points the teen (and her parents) had found in their research.
“We stress a strict focus on academic discipline, physical fitness, and personal responsibility,” Nancy continued. “There’s a strict attendance policy, and a strict dress code. We’ll measure Zoe for her uniforms in a few minutes.” That was news to the teen.
“We expect our students to focus on the classes, so there are no cell phones, music players, or other personal electronics allowed on campus. We serve only wholesome food at the cafeteria — no soft drinks or junk food in the vending machines. Swimming is mandatory; it’s a valuable life skill and good exercise. If Zoe’s behind on her inoculations, we’ll provide them at the on-campus medical clinic.”
All pretty much like you’d expect, Zoe reflected. TRAINCO might be new to the school business, but they had an envious track record of providing top-tier technical skills training for big and small business. She’d done a lot of digging at the library after her parents announced this plan, wanting to know what she was in for.
Belatedly, Zoe realized Nancy was addressing her directly. “Now, young lady, most of your schedule will be taken up by required core classes, but you do have one elective this fall. What do you see on this list that interests you?”
It fairly leapt off the page at her. “Oh, newsletter and yearbook — that’s a class?” She’d fancied herself a good writer at Parker, but the newsletter had been an extracurricular activity there. Yearbook seemed like a pointless exercise in exchanging autographs and trite homilies. It brought back memories of Amber’s picture, never to be signed, and Zoe reminded herself she had planned to be unenthusiastic today. “Newsletter would be fine,” she amended, trying to project the proper image of teenage ennui.
“Well, that’s just fine!” exclaimed Nancy. “You’re all set, then.” Zoe almost rolled her eyes, imagining that she would have gotten exactly the same response if she’d chosen “cannibalism” or “underwater basket weaving”. A few clicks on a keyboard and another sheet of paper joined the growing stack on the countertop.
Nancy gestured around the end of the counter, towards a doorway in the back wall. “Now, Zoe, if you’ll come with me, we’ll get you measured for your uniforms and take your picture for your ID.” She led the way into a small room with a wall-mounted monitor and keyboard, a bare table, and what looked like a changing room. Nancy held the door for her.
“Here’s the scoop: You need to take off your clothes and leave them in the changing room, then step into the measuring silo and stand with your feet on the red outlines and your arms held out horizontally. You can leave on your underwear as long as it isn’t too loose — that’s a problem with the boys — and as long as you don’t have extra padding in your bra. Hmmm, you can either tie your hair back in a ponytail or use a cap here to hold it up. Any questions?”
Zoe eyed the setup curiously. This certainly wasn’t the cloth tape she’d unconsciously expected. “How does it work?”
“Oh, it’s all computerized.” Duh. “A scanner will circle 360 degrees around you from head to toe, measuring you precisely in all three dimensions. Your profile is mapped to a computer model, which controls our fully-automated fabrication hardware. The uniforms will actually be custom-made for you while you wait!”
The girl was impressed in spite of herself. She’d read about the introduction of similar technology in a few Levis stores in big cities, but Springfield was far from any of them — and this contraption sounded like it was a generation or two more advanced, if it worked as advertised.
Zoe latched the door behind herself and kicked off her flip-flops. One, two, three thin layers of tops came off to expose her simple bra. She scowled with dissatisfaction. “Do you record the pictures from this?” she called over the door.
“Oh no, dear, not at all,” Nancy reassured her. “There are no pictures what-so-ever” — the last word was distinctly emphasized — “the scanner just takes measurements, and we only get numbers. Even I can’t see anything. Your mother is right here to keep me honest!”
The hated bra went on top of the other clothing. Zoe didn’t know if she’d outgrown it, or the size was just wrong, or what, but it had never felt right to her. There was no sense in leaving it on and getting another bad measurement from it. She wouldn’t have worn it today if they had been able to find the box with the clothes from her dresser; stupid movers. She deftly tied her hair back with a rubber band, and then shimmied her jeans down her legs to the floor.
Not bad, Zoe decided without false modesty, looking at herself in the mirror. The girl staring back was moderately tall and carried no unnecessary weight. Her trim body was toned from moderate exercise and curved in ways she knew had boys looking at her. She felt her breasts were a perfect handful, definitely feminine but not so big they sagged or gave her problems like she’d heard of from other, more developed, acquaintances. A pair of boyshorts hugged her hips, closely enough Zoe knew she didn’t have to worry they’d throw off the scanner, and covered a pubic patch the same light blonde as the hair on her head. Those tresses fell in soft waves to just below her shoulders, when she wore it free as she preferred.
Introspection completed, Zoe walked into the scanning “silo” and stood on the red footprints in the center of the room. It appeared perfectly circular and perhaps 8 or 9 feet in diameter. The walls were mirrored with a faint gridline, making for a somewhat disconcerting experience. “I’m ready!” she called out.
A panel rose from the floor to block the entrance, making the circle complete. “Okay!” Nancy replied. “Arms out!” Zoe rapidly raised them. “Eyes closed! Remember to breathe!” A whirring sound, not unlike her mother’s flatbed scanner, started immediately behind Zoe and began circling her in a clockwise direction. “That’s good, hold still,” came the periodic encouragement as the scanner continued its slow orbit. Finally the circuit was completed and the scanner shut off. The entry panel sank with a hiss as Nancy called, “done, Zoe!”
It took almost no time to re-dress and Zoe joined the two older women in the antechamber. Nancy led them back out into the lobby, reaching her station just as the laser printer ejected a sheet of paper into the output tray. “Here we are!” she announced unnecessarily, placing the printout on the counter where all three of them could read it.
There were dozens of measurements, more than Zoe thought anybody should have to care about. She focused on familiar ones, which Nancy was reciting aloud. “Height 5 foot 7 inches; 35 inch bust, B cup; 25 inch waist, very nice; 33 inch hips.” Zoe felt the weight of her mother’s sharp glance as Becky observed her daughter’s figure with fresh eyes. “Weight, 115 pounds. There’s a scale in the floor.” That much? Zoe frowned, thinking she must have put on 5 pounds over the summer. But it didn’t look bad on her, and her parents were always reminding her to exercise in moderation and neither binge nor diet excessively. “I wish this were my chart,” Nancy summarized with a friendly smile.
“Now,” she continued, “how do you want your hair for your picture? Down, like when you came in? I have a brush here.” Nodding yes, Zoe pulled off the rubber band. Becky took charge of the brush, untangling and then teasing her daughter’s hair until it looked just right. A quick run of her fingers through the front and it felt right to Zoe, too.
“Isn’t this automated, too?” Zoe inquired. Nancy laughed, displaying a slightly battered digital point-and-shoot camera with an attached USB cable. “Never send a machine to do a woman’s job — we want people to be able to recognize you from your photograph. Now, smile for me…” Zoe obeyed and Nancy snapped a few frames in burst mode. “We do Photoshop the background and uniform,” she admitted. “Now this will take just a minute or three,” she warned before disappearing into another back room.
“Where did you get a 35-inch bust?” Becky mock-growled at her daughter. “My God, Ken will have a heart attack.” Zoe knew her father would do no such thing, but couldn’t stifle a giggle at the joke. Her mother brightened a tad. “Good, a little sparkle, finally. You’d think we were sending you off to the army, not high school.”
Soon enough, Nancy bustled back in with a large, loaded shopping bag. “Oof!” she exclaimed as she deposited it on the floor next to the counter. “Now, here we have your textbooks, your schedule, your locker assignment, a copy of the new student handbook, water bottle, and your student ID. Be sure you don’t lose it!”
Zoe fished out the latter object by the lanyard attached to it, and inspected the picture. It would pass muster, she allowed, approving of the pose. It was intriguing how natural the picture looked. Even on close inspection, the top of the blouse, jacket and tie looked totally realistic and there was no aliasing or join line between her and the earthy brown background of the picture, even around the ends of her hair. It was a little bizarre, seeing herself in an outfit she hadn’t even laid eyes on yet. The badge was perhaps an eighth of an inch thick and felt reassuringly solid. Zoe looped the lanyard over her head.
“Now, it will take a few minutes more for your uniforms, Zoe. Those, a swimsuit, and gym clothes all are included with your registration. You can buy more if you need or want them, but I don’t recommend it at this point — although you look like you’ve finished growing.” Nancy paused for a breath before continuing, “now, there are a few more things you’ll need: socks or hose; shoes; bras; you can use your own, if they comply with the dress code, or buy them here. These articles aren’t custom-made, but they are sized for your measurements. Just a reminder: flip-flops are not compliant.” She looked inquiringly at them.
“I’d like two bras,” Zoe offered diffidently, and was relieved when Becky nodded assent. “34B, 34B,” Nancy muttered as she headed into the supply room, and returned a moment later with two white bras that went into another large shopping bag.
They signed a few more forms before — finally! — Nancy glanced at her monitor and announced Zoe’s clothing was finished. She returned a minute later with several hangers in a transparent bag and several packages. “That was easy. You’re such a nice size, Zoe; the computer hardly had to work at all! Now, here are your uniform blouses” — white — “and skirts” — navy with white pinstripes — “and a uniform jacket and tie.” Both were solid navy blue. She turned to the shrink-wrapped clothing. “Here’s the swimsuit” — a navy and white patterned one-piece — “and gym clothes.” These were a couple sets of shorts and T-shirts, either white with a navy logo, or blue with white logo. They didn’t quite overflow the bag when they were added to it.
After a cheery farewell from the administrator, Zoe was trudging in her mother’s wake towards the car, burdened by the large bag and hangers. Nancy had even thrown in a pair of extra water bottles for her parents, as if the bag weren’t full enough. It was enough to make her wonder why they didn’t have an official Hyde High book bag. The front gate beeped once as she walked through it, attracting the girl’s attention. A box on the side of the gate had an illuminated green light, which went out when she resumed walking. It was a relief to reach the car.
Zoe stared out the car window as her mother chattered on the hands-free set, setting up showings. Her own phone remained stubbornly silent, as if it too mourned Amber’s absence. They lived far enough from the school to be eligible for bussing, but Zoe still was trying to get a feel for the neighborhood and local landmarks. A lot of the houses in the subdivision looked pretty much the same. She didn’t want to get lost trying to find her own house!
At first Zoe thought her mother had gotten confused and pulled up at the wrong house, where a girl about her own age was mowing the front yard. But no, her father’s car was in the driveway ahead of them. As they got out of the car and popped the trunk to collect her things, the unfamiliar brunette stopped the mower and walked over to them.
“Oh My God, another fucking Stepford child,” the girl drawled, taking in the TRAINCO/Hyde logos on the side of the bag. As if this girl should talk, Zoe thought — she was wearing a sports jersey cropped well above the midriff, a pair of ragged cutoffs so short that if they unraveled any more, they’d be a skirt, or belt… and boots. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail and judging by the skin visible through the jersey mesh, she wasn’t wearing a bra.
Zoe sensed her mother was about to explode into an indignant defense, and the other girl must have seen that too. “Oh hey, I’m sorry — no offense — but I just went through their wringer too. I’m Claudia Babbitt; I live next door.” She hooked a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the neighboring house behind her. “Mr. Ryan asked me to cut your grass.”
Ken Ryan appeared at the front door as if summoned. “I see you’ve met Claudia,” he guessed. “Almost,” jibed Becky. “Hello, Claudia, I’m Becky Ryan and this is our daughter, Zoe.” Simultaneous “hello”s from the girls crossed as Ken hefted the bag and hangers. “Wow, any money left in the checking account?” he joked. “Why don’t you girls get acquainted while we take care of this? Claudia, there’s no rush on the yard.”
Zoe found herself stuck in a conversation she wasn’t really sure she wanted to have. Claudia clearly was no Amber, and Zoe felt unready for a friendship even if she had been. “So, Zoe,” Claudia broke the silence, “what year are you? Senior?” The blonde admitted she wasn’t, just a little unhappy that the new acquaintance apparently wasn’t in the same class.
“That blows,” Claudia commiserated. “I have one more year to get out of here, and they pull this fucking shit on us. Lucky you; you get a bonus year.” She laughed. “God, can you imagine if you were a fucking freshman? I guess your parents picked the wrong neighborhood to move to, eh?”
“We moved here just so I could go to Hyde,” Zoe shot back, angry that the sacrifice she knew her parents were making for her was being denigrated. “It’s better than a lot of places! And TRAINCO might be new to charter schools, but they have 95%+ satisfaction ratings for their technical training programs, and you know the charter school concept has been shown to be effective in a lot of different places across the US.”
Claudia looked a little more serious. “Hey, at least your parents are there for you.” She glanced about before continuing in a lower voice. “My mom skipped out, and my dad’s a truck driver. I see him maybe once or twice a month; I think he might have another woman somewhere. Don’t tell anybody, okay? The last thing I need is to get fingered as a latchkey kid and have some asshole social worker stick me in a fucking foster home.”
Zoe felt more sympathy for the girl as she imagined what she’d feel like in that position. Her manner was abrasive and her language shocking to the blonde who rarely heard her parents curse, but Claudia was interesting. Zoe realized that despite the rocky start, she was curious to learn more. “Maybe you can come over for dinner tonight after you finish the yard?” With a sly wink, Zoe added, “If your father doesn’t mind?”
Claudia rewarded her with a slow smile and a nod before turning back to the mower. “Sounds like a date, ‘Stepford Barbie’!” Zoe fumed — she so did not look like a Barbie doll! “Sure thing, ‘trailer-trash Jade’!” Claudia laughed hard enough it took her two tries to restart the mower.
SeptemberThe first day of school was chaos. It made sense to Zoe; the first day at a new school would be a bit crazy anyway, but this time Hyde High was pretty much a new school for everybody — even the returning students who’d attended the previous year. She’d read her materials cover-to-cover, and checked the important things like the dress code and code of conduct twice just to be sure. Her father had dropped her off, so she didn’t have to worry about bus delays. All of the preparation paid off as she threaded her way from the curb through the entry gates and past the harassed security personnel. Swirls of confused students and parents surrounded them, complaining of misunderstandings, lost ID cards, and the like.