Chapter 1

“Ezekiel James, founder of prosthetics conglomerate Augmenta, has passed away aged 101”

flashes across my upper vision as I stick the landing from my first successful Double Arabian. However, the scrolling text startles me and I take an extra step forward than usual, a one-tenths deduction in competition. Oh god, Coach Reilly must have seen me. She’ll have my ass.

I look over and Reilly is similarly mesmerized by the text. Her rapid pupil movements signal that she’s using her terminal during training. Not normal, at least from her.

“Who’s Ezekiel James?” Harron, a 9-year-old, asks as she tentatively completes a round-off on the high beam.

Reilly sighs. “He was a great man. What a shame,” Her wife, Tara Reid, raises her eyebrows as she sips hot coffee. Tara is a slender woman in her mid-30s. She is careful not to spill coffee on a checkered plaid sundress that clings to her hips in the summer humidity. Her long, black hair is twisted in a stern crown braid that accentuates the freckles on her pale face. Coffee is the first step of her ritual cleansing, which she claims is the secret to her gymnastic success. She confided in me privately that great sex is also part of it, but declined to elaborate.

Before they were married, Tara and Reilly Reid were members of the Philadelphia Flips, our local pro gymnastics team. Reilly’s roster pick surprised many because her height formed a competitive disadvantage. She compensated by building more muscle for powerful vaults and dismounts. Tara, her training partner, helped to correct mistakes in her form. Before long, the tall blonde and short brunette became an erotic symbol on the net, much to Reilly’s chagrin.

After the 2058 season, the Reids married and opened their own gym together. It would be the perfect “happy ending” … if they hadn’t run out of rent money three months in. Female gymnastics might be the third most popular sport in America, but that doesn’t mean gyms will attract clientele immediately. So the Reids did what any enterprising couple would: record one of the first virtual reality pornos with full immersion compatibility. The movie would’ve gone viral even without the pair’s notoriety. Twelve years later and few people remember it, but for a while, none of the serious amateurs would set foot inside the studio. At least, no children. Today, the Reids are famous for something else: their commitment to equal rights for male laborers.

Frederick swings from a peach to a handstand on the parallel bars. He’s attempting the Casimiro Suárez, a backwards somersault with a 180° twist. At 19 years old, he has participated in two national meets and hopes to make the 2072 Olympic team. The Philly Inquirer ranked him as one of the top 100 men’s gymnasts in the country. Understandably, though, not a lot of gyms want to accept him, since that would mean increasing security. He’s the Reids’ best kept secret.

Fred replicates the elements perfectly, then dismounts in a 180° forward tucked double salto. We all clap for him, but something seems off. After sticking the landing, he appears anguished and solemnly crosses his arms. “Ezekiel James...saved my life.”

Coach Reilly nods and looks around at my teammates, Melanie and Dolores. They look at each other, confused. That’s not surprising. No one expects a 13- and 14-year old to know about politics. But I’m 20 and supposed to know better. I ask hesitantly, “Thanks to him... they ended the draft, right?”

Frederick looks like he’s about to cry. He shuts his eyes.

Coach Reilly, despite her friendly demeanor, is not skilled with sensitive issues. She rubs her temples and awkwardly redirects the conversation. “I’m sorry if that’s a touchy subject. But, there’s been something else on my mind lately. Ever since you fell yesterday, your form has been a little off. Did you complete the set of dips I asked you to?”

Fred’s muscles are tensed like a clogged water pipe about to burst. I can’t tell whether he’s just filled with emotion or deep in thought, perhaps an old memory. He doesn’t answer.

Tara interrupts her two-creams-two-sugars with an encouraging smile. “Aw Freddie, don’t feel bad. Conscription is over, so you’re free to live your life. Besides, if you ever fall on hard times, you can always sleep with us--”

Reilly shoots her a strained pout that is a mixture of laughter and suspicion.

Tara pauses before pressing her stained lips to the cup and sipping inconspicuously.

Siiip. “--I mean, our couch is always open.” Siiip.

I walk over to Frederick and pat his shoulder lightly to wake him from his catatonic state.

“Hey, are you okay?” I ask.

He’s dazed momentarily, then pulls away and mutters, “I need to go,” as he bolts towards the locker rooms. I don’t know Fred that well; he only reveals flashes of personality in the constant reflections of John Orozco and Kenzo Shirai on his terminal. Orozco was the first male African-American All-Around winner, who Fred resembles greatly. Shirai was the first to accomplish a quadruple twist in competition. Truthfully, the kid’s ambitions were evident from the moment he entered the gym two years ago in peak physical condition. If only he weren’t so stoic all the time...

Somehow, I feel as if our hearts have encountered similar pain. I dodge my teammates’ prying glances and follow him instinctively.

You would assume that it’s easy to navigate a small studio, but the Reid Gym is an exception. The building has several dead end corridors as a result of the former tenant’s illegal renovations. I don’t know much about them, but three businessmen from City Center transformed the space into an urgent care unit. They built living quarters upstairs, which is where the Reids currently live.

“I wonder if anyone died here,” Reilly had asked one day, years ago. “maybe their ghost will come to haunt us while we sleep.” Everyone present giggled and doubted whether that could be true.

Her prediction was right, although not in the way she had thought. After the couple went public with their advocacy for ending compulsory male labor, they noticed many more shadows in the streets than usual. Their window panes cracked and broke in the night. In response, political dissidents rallied around them and held weekly gatherings on the couple’s polyethylene mats. That is, until the National Guard stepped in. The ghosts haunting them were none other than the ambitions of President Richards’ Lysistratan party.

I listen for Fred’s footsteps until I reach the door of the men’s locker room. The men’s rooms in most places reek of mold and sweat, but Tara makes us clean everything after practice, even if we didn’t use it. As such, I know the layout of the men’s room and figure that Fred is probably hiding in one of the stalls. I open the door, expecting to round the corner…

Silence. Our eyes meet. He’s shirtless, which wouldn’t be a huge deal if he were a woman. Women see each other nude all the time. But that’s okay in a society where we comprise 77% of the population. I look away and close the door, embarrassed to have violated his privacy. Still, I wait outside. Time stretches on for perhaps twenty minutes.

“Captain! Where are you, Captain?” Dolores calls for me in her uniquely Spaniard accent. Dolores is a recent implant to the States, looking to break into the for-profit gymnastics circuit. I’m curious as to why she sacrificed so much to come here, especially since my decision to enter this sport was framed by -- above all -- convenience.

The door swings open and Fred looks past me. He’s dressed in a blanched high-collared shirt and military jacket with tight-fitting denim. It seems like he walked out of an audition for NTouch, a popular boy band whose style imitates London’s working class skinheads from the 1970s. I hadn’t pegged him as an admirer, but then again, we’ve hardly ever spoken. I’m left staring after him until I croak out,

“Stop pretending!”

Fred stops and glares back at me indignantly.

I plead with him, “Stop pretending that everything is okay. You’ve got a chip on your shoulder about something, I don’t know what. But you’re not alone. We understand,”

Fred’s stare remains cold and dismissive, as if to say, ‘No, you don’t’. He turns and continues walking.

~*~

One night I woke up to retching sounds from my parents’ bathroom. My terminal hadn’t been implanted yet, so I needed to grope around in the dark for my alarm clock. 1:15am. Our white chow chow, Puffie, snoozed noisily next to me. I petted the warm ball of fur, enchanted by his small chest rising up and down.

More coughing. A door opened. I heard the kitchen sink running and floorboards creaking all over. Now my grandmother was up and asking what’s wrong. Hospital, my mother was saying.

I held Puffie closer. Hospital. Blood. Can’t breathe.

In the dark I heard another set of footsteps. My bedroom door opened. The light streaming into the room blinded my eyes but I could still make out a familiar face.

“Dad? What’s up?” I asked naively. He politely tiptoed into the room and sat on the edge of my bed. He tickled Puffie’s nose, who woke up and began licking him. With his other hand he stroked my hair and gave his best ‘concerned Dad’ voice.

“My flower,” his nickname for me. “I love you and your mother more than anything in the world. Do not worry,” He shifted his gaunt frame to look at me better. “We will see each other again soon.”

We hugged and he kissed my cheek goodbye. I should’ve known better that it was a goodbye, that when a parent puts on such an act, it usually leads to ominous things.

In the morning, my grandmother told me nothing was wrong. To pack my bags for school. Over my hot oatmeal, I came to a terrible realization. I snuck into my parents’ room to see if either of them had left for work. The room was empty yet normal, save for lumpy red flecks on the bed sheets.

I was twelve years old.