Ashwan

To be born in the year 2615 on the 21st of March was fortuitous, but to be born at 14:59:30 hours on that same day made you a God.

I was born at 14:59:31. One second from God status.

My mother likes to joke that she should have pushed harder that day, strained a bit more, and then her son would have been a God. She says this with a smile on her face, like I have lost a game of chess, or I came second in a running race with my sister. Something unimportant, insignificant.

Father always laughs. My sister giggles.

“Our Ashwan, a God?” Mother will say. “Imagine that.”

Yes. Imagine.

Today, I turn fifteen, and I am not a God.

Instead, I am Ashwan from Area 115, living in a cramped apartment where I sleep on the floor, where my parents work two jobs just to put food on the table, where my clothes are more like rags, and where every day is a reminder of who I am—nobody and no one.

Our holographic screen plays in the background. I can already hear the celebrations of our Gods’ birthdays. The ones born one second before me. The growing crowds chant their names: Barra, Shanza, Helk. Two girls, one boy, all natural births, born at that preordained time. I am certain some mothers held back the urge to push to try to ensure their child obtained God status. While others would have pushed with a fury to make sure their child was born to the exact second. Not my mother.

“Happy birthday, Ashwan,” she says this morning, her eyes still sleepy, her hair haphazard, as she hands me a present wrapped in a hologram.

“What is it?”

“Open it. You’ll see.”

I hope it is an augmentation chip. I only have two, the most basic mapping system, which is essential for navigation, and an eyesight enhancer to stop the deterioration in my eyes. Most of my classmates have five or six augmentations. If I’d been born a God, I would have them all.

I press the hologram, and the light fades to reveal a soft orange ball.

“What is . . . it?”

“An orange. They used to grow abundantly on Earth before the wars. It’s a type of fruit.”

“An orange?”

“At work, we’ve successfully managed to recreate them. It tastes divine. I took one for you from the lab. They haven’t been released to the citizens yet.”

“You made this?”

“Yes, I wanted to share it with you. For your birthday, a special treat.”

Mother beams proudly. Sister wants me to cut it open so she can taste it. Father nods in approval.

They all wait for me to say something.

In the background, I hear the parade of people chanting the Gods’ names ever louder: Barra, Shanza, Helk. They will be lavished with gifts. More augmentations. They will rule our world.

I roll the orange in my hand.

I imagine squeezing it so hard until the skin breaks and juices run down my arm, but instead I take out a knife and cut it into four pieces. One for each of us. My hand shakes as I cut, my throat tightens. Mother puts her hand on top of mine. Her fingers are bent and twisted. “It’s not much, Son, but it’s all we can give you right now.”

“Happy birthday, Ashwan,” adds my sister.

“You should make a wish, Son,” says Dad.

I swallow back my tears. “A wish?” The words sound squished, much like the piece of orange in my palm.

“Yes, it’s an old tradition. Before you eat something on your birthday.”

I make my wish. I eat my orange.

I wish I had been born a God.

Barra

I was born in the year 2615, on the 21st of March, at 14:59:30 hours.

I am a God.

One second can make all the difference.

My robotoid servant brushes my long, silver hair. Part of being a God is looking like one. All my own hair has been replaced with implants of silver strands. I vaguely remember my hair was once brown with a slight curl, but all those follicles have long since been killed. My skin, too, has been peppered with holographic shimmers under my epidermis, and an augmentation ensures I shine day and night. Even my eye color is not my own. I used to have brown eyes, but now they are violet. My eyebrows are painted, my eyelashes are implants. My breasts, lips, and hips are augmented to be more becoming, and even my voice is modulated to be more pleasing. A God must always be beautiful.

“Your hair is done, Mistress Barra. Brushed to a shine.”

“Thank you. You may leave.” The robotoid hovers close by. “I said you may leave,” I repeat in my singsong voice. Melodious, like ripples in the air. Even when I’m angry, I sound pleasant.

“Master wishes me to stay.”

“Stay? Why?”

“Because of what happened last time.”

Of course. Trust must be earned back. Last birthday, I smashed my mirror and took the shards of glass to the back of my head to try and remove my augmentations. The ones that make me smarter, faster, stronger. The ones that make me see better, smell more, hear more. And the ones where Master whispers in my head, controlling me like a puppet, so I can never be sure which are my thoughts and which are his.

Even though I am a God, I still bleed. They patched me up, covered me up, and paraded me to the masses for my birthday celebrations. All I had to do was wave.

“That was a year ago. I won’t be doing that again.” In truth, I cannot, as Master has installed an anti-self-harm augmentation.

“I will stay,” insists the robotoid. It seems I cannot control my own servants. I have little control over anything.

I sigh. Looking at myself in the mirror, I don’t even recognize the person staring back.

I am fifteen today.

If I had been born one second later, I could have lived a normal life. I would have had brown hair and brown eyes and a flat chest and a voice that sounded like any other girl’s voice. And maybe I would have been happy.

If I had the ability to cry, I would, but even as my eyes well up, the tears are suctioned away by nanobots working overtime inside my body. Another augmentation. A God must always be in control of their emotions. Tears are a weakness not permitted.

I hear him coming before the robotoid does. Heavy steps down the hallway. Old-time metal from before the wars.

Master.

Despite his biological skin, he’s still a machine underneath.

He never knocks.

The door slides open.

“Barra.” He smiles, seeing me seated before my mirror. “Happy Birthday.”

“Thank you.”

“You look beautiful, as always. But I have noticed something has been missing.”

There is always something missing.

“What?”

“A smile. I want to see you happy. The people respond 92 percent more favorably to a God who is smiling. We want you to connect to your people. You are a chosen one, you need to show that you are happy in your exalted position.”

“Happy? But I’m not.”

“Oh, how you like to joke. Of course you are happy. You just don’t know it. That is why I am here to help. In addition to your updated augmentations, I have developed a special one just for you. A smiling application—”

“I don’t want it.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“You’ve taken away my tears. Now you want me to smile all the time?”

“Just the action of smiling will make you feel happier.”

“I don’t want it.”

“I wish you wouldn’t always be so difficult. Do I need to bring your parents in again?”

My parents live in a luxurious residence apart from me, their every whim catered for as a reward for having birthed a God. I lived with them till the age of ten, before being forced to live in the tower with Master to begin my God training. These days, my parents are only used to control me. Their lives threatened unless I comply.

“No, Master.” There’s no use in fighting.

“Good. Bow your head.”

I bend my neck, and I feel him parting my silver hair at the base of the skull, where augmentations can feed directly into my neural network. The chip is slipped beneath a flap of skin. Already, despite myself, I feel the edges of my lips curl upward into an approximation of a smile.

I sit back up and stare at myself in the mirror.

“There you go,” he says. “You’re happy. I knew you would be.”

I’m smiling.

I speak in my singsong voice. “Yes, I’m . . . happy,” I say.

My eyes can’t cry.

Ashwan

Before the parade starts, I’m at the river, watching the churning currents as thoughts churn inside me. My stomach growls; the orange was not enough. I like to come here sometimes to think, other times I scavenge. Finding what I can to sell. Born poor, you have to do what you can to survive. They say that beneath the water lies broken buildings and roads from the time before the wars. Centuries of civilization turned to rubble. You should be happy, I try to tell myself, forcing myself to smile. But it never works.

My sister has found me. She tugs on my arm impatiently. “Ashwan, come on. Let’s go.” She doesn’t want to be late.

The parade starts at 14:59:30 exactly. The God time. But the crowds begin early.

It was our Master that determined the exact day and time when Gods were born. We were told it was an unusual alignment of the planets and the stars, said to foretell the birth of Gods. An alignment that had not been seen since the birth of baby Jesus.

Master has never been wrong. He can predict weather patterns, celestial disturbances, and changes in our oceans and seas, so it should come as no surprise that he could predict the birth of Gods. But I do wonder if human error may have influenced things. The birth time was only recorded when the whole of the baby had emerged from the birth canal, with those births delivered by caesarean discounted. At every birth, a robotoid was stationed to confirm the time to the exact second. However, a doctor or midwife too slow to move out of the way could easily relegate someone from being a God to a non-God, and vice versa. Sometimes I wonder if perhaps my birth time was recorded wrong. A doctor too tired, too slow, too distracted, hindering the timestamp process. One second costing me my life of luxury.

As my sister and I emerge out onto the streets, we jostle for a position amongst the hordes. I have never seen so many people. Every year, the Gods gain in popularity. Today, the streets are lined with citizens holding posters and waving flags for the parade. Everyone has a favorite God—Barra for her beauty, Shanza for her athleticism, Helk for his strength. If I had been born a God, I would have hoped for wisdom. But Mother always says that comes with time. Still, of all the Gods, I like Barra the most. Her skin shines like a diamond, and in the sunlight she dazzles so much that I find myself unable to look away. My sister’s favorite is Helk; he can topple a building with his body, snap a human in half with his hands, and lift a transponder over his head. Shanza is popular too with the crowds; she can run faster than anyone, swing from buildings effortlessly, and somersault and backflip with ease.

Some of the old ways have gradually returned and have been encouraged by Master. People openly pray to the Gods for beauty, strength, and health. Some give up offerings for them: food, livestock, precious items. Lavish churches have been erected where people can sing songs, worship, and send electronic messages to the Gods. And gradually, as the Gods age, Master is transcribing their holy words into a digital testament called Harmony, which in time all citizens will be bound by. Master once ruled by force, but the Gods rule with the people’s devotion.

“Look, Ashwan! It’s about to start!” squeals my sister, she’s pointing to the massive digital timer ticking upward in precious seconds.

“Yes. It is.”

Today is the one day of the year where we can see the Gods up close as Master parades them through our city for all to see. The parade will also be broadcast across our nation, watched by millions, so that everyone can see our Gods. The chosen ones. The divine ones. The lucky ones.

Barra

“Are you ready?” asks Master.

We stand on a podium. A red curtain drawn as a clock clicks ever closer to our birthing time. I can hear the crowds beyond the curtain. A low hum of building excitement.

Helk nods. He’s been injected with so many stimulants that his body trembles, and his words come out as mush. But Master doesn’t need him to talk, not today. He only needs to show strength. All his energies have been diverted into his muscles.

Shanza, too, has been injected with stimulants, but also pain relief. None of her bones are those she was born with. They have all been replaced by lighter, stronger, flexible components over many painful procedures. Antigravity pads have been installed into the soles of her feet, helping her to jump higher and run faster. She lives in constant pain. “Yes, I’m ready,” she says, eager for it all to end.

And I just smile. I can’t help myself. I can only smile.

Master looks at each of us in turn, like he is weighing us up. He pats Helk’s cheek, brushes Shanza’s shoulder, and touches my hair. “Good. I wanted to let you all know I have been working hard on a way to solidify your reign in the future, and I think the way forward is children.”

The seconds tick by on the clock.

“Children?” I dare to ask.

“Yes. A child conceived between two Gods inherits their divine status. Your human history is filled with these stories. Should Helk impregnate you and Shanza, the children you bear will automatically inherit your God status.” Helk stares vacantly, not understanding. Shanza’s eyes are downcast; she is already broken.

“No,” I say so softly, still smiling.

Master laughs. “You always say no, Barra, but you will come around to the idea. You always do.”

More seconds tick by.

No, I repeat in my head, but Master is in there too. Yes, he says. You will comply.

Tick-Tick-Tick.

“Time to show the people their Gods!” says Master.

The clock ticks to 14:59:30 exactly, and he steps out from behind the curtain onto the podium, leaving us with his words that bounce in my head and thud in my heart. Helk. Impregnate . . .

“Good Citizens,” he begins, “today we honor our Gods. They turn fifteen today and grow stronger, fitter, and more beautiful. Join us in their birthday celebrations!”

The curtain draws back to reveal the three of us. I don’t have to perform like Helk and Shanza; all I have to do is stand, wave, and smile, but my legs and hands tremble, my head is in turmoil. I have no choice but to smile. The crowd smiles back.

They love us, but they do not know us. They only know what Master tells them. Helk picks me and Shanza up, balancing each of us in one hand. Shanza flips into a handstand, and I simply dazzle, turning in the sun to allow my skin to sparkle.

The crowd applauds. They always do, and we’re led to a transponder to tour the streets among the people.

Waving and smiling.

While inside I cry.

Ashwan

The transponder with Barra, Shanza, Helk, and Master makes its way among the crowds on its bubble of air, flying low to the ground.

The crowd chants as they pass. “Barra! Shanza! Helk!”

We are rewarded with their waves and smiles.

I have never seen Barra look so happy. Her smile is stretched wide. Her hair and skin dazzles, glistening in the rays of the sun.

As they pass, they throw objects to the crowd.

“What are they giving this year?” asks my sister.

“I’m not sure.”

One falls my way, and I catch it in my hands. A gift from the Gods. I open my palms to find an orange. Like the one my mother gave me this morning. “Is it—” begins my sister.

I can only nod. My special birthday treat being given out to the masses. Not everyone catches their gifts, and many oranges lie splattered on the sidewalk.

Not so special after all.

Just like me.

The transponder pulls to a stop beside us. The doors swish open, and Helk steps out, accompanied by Master and a couple of roboguards. The crowd cheers. This will be Helk’s first performance of the day, showing a feat of strength.

“Look!” my sister says, pulling me toward him. “He’s coming close!”

Helk sets out toward a small building, while Barra and Shanza look on from the transponder. A man rushes from the building, a shopkeeper. “Please! No!” he says as Helk strides purposefully forward. The man is pushed to the ground.

“Hold him,” orders the Master, “it is the will of the Gods.”

The man is held by roboguards, forced to watch as Helk repeatedly slams his body into the building.

“Please, my home, my shop. I beg you—” sobs the man, kneeling in dirt. He looks around at empty faces.

Within moments, the building is toppled amongst a cloud of dust.

The crowd erupts into applause and coughing from the dust, but I only have eyes for the man. He crumbles like his building, whimpering into his hands. His life changed in seconds. Someone hands him an orange.

“How strong he is!” says my sister, looking at Helk.

When the dust settles, Helk walks back to the transponder. “Helk! Helk!” my sister calls, wishing for him to turn toward her, a small acknowledgment, but it’s as if he cannot hear. A thin line of drool drips from his mouth down his chin, and his eyes stare straight ahead, like empty vessels.

When he reaches the transponder, Master joins him. Three stand in the transponder: Helk, Shanza, and the Master.

But there is no Barra.

Barra

Life is decided in moments. Seconds. Just like my birth. And in that one second when Helk topples the building, no one is looking at me. Everyone is looking at Helk as the dust cloud settles over us all.

One second.

I don’t think.

I act.

I jump from the transponder and run. Heading into the backstreets away from the crowd.

No plan. No idea.

I pull a cloak off a washing line, wrap myself in it, and rub and roll myself in dirt to cover my sparkling skin.

Keeping to the shadows, running through empty streets. One thought—away.

What are you doing? screeches a voice in my head. Master. I try to cover my ears, but it never works.

Come back now! he screams inside me.

I run until I come to a river. His voice booms.

You will never get away. Never. You will—

No thinking.

Just instinct.

I dive.

---

My body has been augmented so much that it is hardly recognizable, but I have also been given Godlike abilities beyond looking beautiful—such as the ability to breathe and see under water. Master thought it was important that we should never drown; investments need to be protected.

I dive until I reach the bottom of the river. It’s cooler and darker down here, with swift currents surrounding me. I drift along a rocky riverbed, my eyes scanning ahead, my silver hair floating around me in the current. Here, under water, I can’t hear Master in my head. And here, he cannot track me.

There’s remnants of the old world on the riverbed, things that look similar to our transponders but smaller and rusted, covered in green algae. Strips of metal and the occasional bone of our ancestors. Leafy plants bend and sway. Inquisitive fish come close, but most stay away.

The dust washes off, and the skin on my arms shimmers as I move. I suppose the water must be cold, but my body temperature adjusts automatically.

I could spend forever down here. Away from Master. With my own thoughts as company. Thinking for myself instead of being told what to say and who to be.

But at some time, I must surface for food, and when I do, it won’t be long before the tracker inside me activates, and they find me.

I shiver, even though I am not cold.

Ashwan

The news is being broadcast 24-7. The God Barra has been stolen.

Rewards are offered for her immediate recovery. A bereft Master appears on our screens: “She was the most beautiful of us all, the most gentle soul, an Aphrodite reborn. Please return Barra to us.”

Her parents stand next to him. They stare into the camera with empty eyes. “Please let Barra come back,” says the mother. The father twists his hands together. His mouth closed as if he does not trust himself to speak.

“Who would take her and how?” asks my sister.

“I don’t know,” says Mother, stirring our soup for dinner. “Seems like a terrible thing to do, to take a God. Did you see anything, Ashwan?”

I shake my head. All I remember is a glittering, smiling Barra, possibly the most beautiful she has ever been, and the man sitting on the ground, crying as his shop was toppled.

“Maybe she ran away?” says my sister.

“Don’t be stupid. She’s a God. Why would she do that?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Maybe she doesn’t like being a God?”

“What is there not to like? She’s a God among our people. She can do things that you and I can only dream of. People worship her, and she is the most beautiful of all. Anyone would kill to be a God.”

When I stop speaking, Mother and sister are looking at me. “Would you kill to be a God, Ashwan?” Mother asks. She stirs our soup slowly, her eyes watching me like they’re measuring me, a tablespoon here, a teaspoon there.

“Of course not. I just meant—”

“I know what you meant.” She shakes her head and grips the spoon awkwardly between arthritic fingers. “You do not need riches or augmentations to make you happy. Even the poorest can be happy.”

“Do you not wish, Mother, that your son had been born a God? That you were not cooking soup, living in a hovel, and giving your son an orange for his birthday? That instead, you were living in luxury with augmentations to stop the arthritis in your fingers? That you had servants to cook and clean for you? Do you not wish—”

“Stop! Stop it!” The spoon clatters to the floor. The soup sloshes. “No, I do not! I do not wish that at all.”

I should put an arm around her. I should tell her I’m sorry. I should tell her that I love her and that is all that matters.

But I do none of that.

Instead, I walk out the front door.

---

Our city becomes quiet as night approaches. Shops shut, and people head home to their families. Only some are out walking. I hear them talking about Barra. The news has worried our nation. I catch snatches of conversation as I walk past:

“Perhaps it is a lover who has taken her?”

“Could she make herself invisible? She is a God. She could have made herself disappear?”

“There was something in the dust. Did you not see that dust cloud? It seemed unusual to me.”

I’m not really sure where I’m walking to.

I left with just one thought. Away. But even here, I cannot get away from the Gods.

Tomorrow it will be different. Things will be back to normal. But this one cursed day, once a year, is a constant reminder that I am no one.

I end up back at the river.

There is something about the water that always calms me. The gentle sounds brushing up against the shoreline. The occasional bird seeking a meal. And the boats tied up that gently rock to and fro.

Tonight, I decide to sit on the riverbank. I pick up a stone and hold it between my hands, rolling it between thumb and forefinger as I watch the colors leech from the sky. I hum to myself, just a lullaby from my childhood. Something from happier times when I never wanted for anything other than a kiss goodnight and food in my belly. The sun slowly sets, the darkness covering the land gently. It’s time to return home. To hug Mother. To eat my soup. And for my birthday to end.

I stand, and as I do so, I cast my eyes to the river once again. I catch unusual movement, strange ripples upon the surface, and I see what looks like a large silver fish swimming toward me. It’s beautiful, shining in the low light.

It approaches the bank, swimming into the shallows.

Silver strands fanned out like moonlight.

A pale face slowly emerging from the water.

Sparkling skin with luminous violet eyes, rose-tinted full lips, smiling.

Barra.

“Please . . . help me,” she whispers in a voice that is like a delicate melody.

She points to the back of her head. “Take them. Take them all. I can’t remove them myself.”

“All of them? But—”

“Please,” she insists. “Hurry.”

I could say no. I could walk away. I could yell for others to come.

All it takes is a second.

I nod.

She lies down on the shore, and I part her wet, silver hair. I lift the flap of skin at the base of her skull and find an oversized augmentation compartment filled with chips. Hundreds of them. Each one is worth thousands, some triple that.

“Do you—?” I begin, but it is as if she has read my mind.

“All of them,” she insists. “Take them all out.”

And so, I begin.

---

When it is done, I close Barra’s compartment and fold back her skin. She rolls over, and her smile has disappeared. Her face has grown paler, the shimmers from her skin are gone. Instead, I see faint scars on her face. She doesn’t look like a God. She looks like just a girl. A pale, scared girl, and she’s shivering.

“Th . . . thank you,” she stammers.

“What should I do with them?” I ask, pointing to the piled augmentation chips on the riverbank. There is a fortune sitting there. I could be rich. I could be—

“N . . . nothing. Leave them.” She tries to stand, but I have to support her. Her clothes are dripping wet. “So . . . so cold,” she says. Her teeth chattering. “M . . . must go.”

“They’re looking for you. The Master. They think you’ve been stolen.”

“Stolen?” She gives a little laugh. “No. Not stolen. Lost perhaps, but they must never find me.”

She walks. Hobbling, shuffling, like an old lady. She starts in one direction and then turns in another. Her long, silver hair, shedding, falling like starlight behind her.

“Where are you going?”

“ . . . I don’t know. J . . . just away.”

“Wait,” I call. She turns toward me. Even in this light, I see her eyes aren’t violet anymore; they’re fading to brown, like mine. They’re filled with tears. The moment stretches. I stand before a God stripped of all her augmentations.

It takes only a second.

“Let me . . . help you.”

No plan. No idea. Just instinct.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

A tear falls free, and then she smiles.