Folsom (End of Men, #1)(31)

Milly sits at the head of a large table when I walk into the room, her hands clasped in front of her. Seated around the table are ten other people, some of whom I recognize. They’re all founding members of the Society.

Doctor Hildenburg, the head of the Regional research team, a fox-faced woman who keeps her grey hair in a long braid down her back; their lead scientist, a man in his eighties named Rolfston; and Rain Foster, who is the liaison between the End Men and the Regions. I nod to all of them as I take my seat opposite Milly, and then introductions are made around the table.

“We’re delighted that you’re back on your feet and feeling better,” Milly says. “We’ve been in constant contact with your doctor here in the lab, and she assures us that you’ve received the best medical treatment they can provide. Can you tell us how you’re feeling, Folsom?”

Such a loaded question.

“I’m all right,” I say slowly.

This seems to satisfy her. “Good, good. Because we’d like for you to get back to work if you’re ready.”

I nod. I already knew this, but it’s not why they’ve come. Ten members of the Society do not fly hundreds of miles to see how an End Man is feeling.

“There is something else we’d like to discuss with you. It’s the matter of Laticus. If you recall he’s—”

“I know who he is,” I interrupt.

She glances at Doctor Hildenburg, and her next words are extremely measured.

“Of course you do,” she says. “As you know, it won’t be long before he turns sixteen and we’ve brought him in to do his initial testing. He’s here at Genome Y at the moment.” She pauses to see how I’ll react, and when I don’t, she continues. “We’d like to start him in the program, Folsom—”

“No,” I say.

Milly looks irritated. It’s the second time I’ve interrupted her.

“Marcus has not produced a pregnancy in one year. He’s been removed from the program and is currently having testing done at the Genome Y lab in the Grey Region.”

Marcus Welsh is the new guy. He came in about seven years after me at the ripe age of eighteen and has the lowest success rate of the twelve. I’d not heard that he’d fallen off in numbers completely.

“What does that have to do with me?” I ask.

“He’s suddenly sterile, Folsom, and we don’t know why. Half of what was left of the male population suddenly went sterile twenty years ago, the rest soon followed. We have twelve virile men in these Regions and we can’t take the risk.”

I lean forward, placing both of my elbows on the table. “You’ve put him in isolation?”

“Yes,” she says quickly. “We had no choice.”

“Neither did he,” I say.

Milly’s eye twitches. She sighs and then nods at Rain, who passes me a sheet of paper.

“As you know, each year we have a projected number of births we need to fill. The numbers are based on our estimation of stabilizing the population. With Marcus out of the picture, we fall behind. We need Laticus.”

“He’s fifteen years old. He’s still a boy. The End Men don’t start until they’re eighteen, Milly.”

She nods like she understands. “We know that, Folsom. We realize your concerns, but the boy is ready.”

“His body is ready. God—” I run my fingers through my hair, shaking my head. “You people will stop at nothing. And if you want Laticus, why are you asking me?”

This time it’s Rain who speaks.

“Laticus was the first male born in the Regions. Our protocol was not completely in place when he was born. Your name is on his birth certificate,” she says.

I remember signing the paper when they brought it to me, my hand shaking when I saw his name written in his mother’s handwriting as Laticus Donahue. At the time, I’d been surprised that she’d given him my name.

“And his mother? Her name is on the certificate.”

“As you recall, Folsom, his mother was a lottery winner. She signed her rights to Laticus over to us before he was conceived. It is part of their arrangement. You, on the other hand, did not.”

“You stripped a mother of her young son, took a boy from his mother all because in her desperation not to starve and to have a child of her own, she signed his life over to you?”

None of them say anything. But, I know. The pool of lottery winners come from the lower class, people who work long hours in service jobs. If they become pregnant after winning the lottery their whole life changes: money, a home, food—and they never have to work again. They sign their rights over willingly because they are accustomed to thinking about their lives in terms of tomorrow, not years into the future.

I sit back in my chair staring at each of them in turn. If what I am hearing is right, they cannot place Laticus in the End Men without my permission until he is eighteen.

“And my other sons?” I ask.

“The other boys were not born to lottery winners,” Milly replies. “Their mothers will lose legal rights over the boys when they reach the age of eighteen.”

For each of the male children, there had been a packet sent to me via courier. I remember signing what they asked without thinking too much about it.

“We need you to sign the release for Laticus,” Rain says. She looks down at the paper sitting on the table in front of me as if she’s prompting me to pick up the pen.