Optima Terra; The Many Lives of Darren Decko

By Scott Simms

On Darren's smartphone-addicted world, Optima Terra, everyone moves in and out every four months, so that no one can form lasting bonds, and airborne pesky "bots" ensure the "perfect society." Yet, when Darren falls in love with a rebellious young woman on one of his "rotations," and they are forced to part ways, he vows to get to the root of his oppressed society.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Simms
• Release date: Mar 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005932459

Scott Simms

Scott Simms is a writer of urban fantasy and speculative fiction, preferring everyday situations with light sci-fi or fantasy elements introduced to an "everyman" or "everywoman."

Book preview

Optima Terra: The Many Lives of Darren Dekko

Copyright © 2020 Scott Simms

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved

Formatting by Daniel J. Weber

Copyright Statement

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts embodied in critical reviews, or promotion of the book, or certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

License Statement

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people, except with the written permission of the publisher or by the publisher giving out a free copy. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Optima Terra

The Many Lives of Darren Dekko

by

Scott Simms

ROTATION 51

LOCATION: GRUPO

DARREN’S AGE: 17.13 years

Smartphones Royally Whomp a Dry History Lesson

Darren Dekko sat in his usual coveted spot, the third from the right in the front row. Head jutted forward, he listened as Teacher Martha Varmega droned on. Her eyes remained languid, her cheeks barely moving, as if she were a ventriloquist. A blue tapestry of uniformity wearied the jaded eye. All students, male or female, conformed to the same dress code—dull blue long-sleeved cotton top, color-matching pants.

He glanced around the classroom. Should he? His hand lifted from his desk, hesitant. A flush of heat crossed his brow. But the other students had long since tuned out. They continually checked their smartphones for vital stats on their weight, blood pressure, cholesterol, and fatty acid levels. The girls checked their estrogen levels, the boys their testosterone levels. A few students flirted with one other, texting naughty messages or the latest gossip.

His hand finally rose, a gesture that drew sharp gazes.

Yes, Darren?

Uh, Teacher, Darren said. Every student addressed the instructor simply as Teacher. This generic moniker aptly suited each of the teachers, recruited at random from the masses and directed to serve only four months in the thankless position. I was thinking today is Day 56, Rote 3, 212 N.E.

So what? retorted a snide whisper. Probably Aden, who sat two rows behind him. The perky, vivacious gal who managed every four months to captivate a new mini-army of admirers to stoke her popularity.

What about it? Teacher asked, narrowing her eyes.

I know N.E. stands for New Era. He gulped. Here it comes. But… only two-twelve? Everyone knows we’ve been around way longer than that. What happened before zero N.E.?

Sharp intake of breath by Teacher, fierce murmurs by the students.

We don’t talk about that, replied Teacher, her voice brittle. A frown creased her brow.

He held out his hands, helpless. Why… not?

We just… don’t.

I’ll tell you why, the sharp, annoyed voice rose from the very last row. Amy. The red-haired teenager with the wild frizzy hair and steel braces. That year marked the end of era of the Mesmotopic rule. History is written by the victors, so—

Enough! snapped Teacher.

Whoa. Is this Amy for real? Darren turned back, staring at her like never before. Wait, wait. Mesmotopic? What’s that?

It’s not a what, it’s a who. King Mesmotopia, who ruled in eight seventy-eight—

Enough, I said! said Teacher, her voice muted, her eyes like daggers.

Great, Darren, grumbled a voice he despised since his first childhood memory. An earworm he always dreaded, but one that never went away. Gabriel. That skinny twit who always appeared two sizes smaller than the other guys. Now a bot’s gonna come in.

Hey! he retorted. Surely Gabriel protested too much.

But as if on cue, a gleaming steel ball studded with lens and sensors, zoomed into the classroom and skidded to a stop beside Teacher, who shrank away.

Told ya, Gabriel muttered.

Is there a problem, miss? hissed the bot, its largest lens fixated upon Teacher’s wide eyes.

No. No, replied Teacher, her shoulders back. We’re fine, thanks. She turned to the class, going erm, erm, full-throat as if gargling. This is not on your assigned materials.

A collective sigh of relief swirled around the classroom, giving away to tweet-like beeping sounds of smartphones, like a cacophony of birds notched down several decibels.

Darren pressed on, his eye trained on the bot, which hadn’t moved, as if frozen in place. Why can’t we talk about it? Isn’t how this all started? Everyone knew of what he spoke. The Rotation System. How he became a Roatee the day he was born.

The bot finally spun, its largest glass circle facing Teacher. Yet, its pivot so smooth, so precise it neither budged up or sideways.

Teacher crossed her arms and replied, We don’t learn history past one hundred years ago, so it’s irrelevant. We apply the concept of oral history, passing on stories from living, breathing, golden-agers. This ensures history is fresh, relevant, and verifiable!

If you’re dead, you don’t get read, Aden said. A sentiment he’d heard several times.

I don’t get it, he said. If we don’t learn history how do we make sure—um, he finished, glancing at the floor.

I think he was trying to say we could make the same mistakes over again. Ya know? arose a female voice, quiet, hesitant. Whoa, who said that? He turned to the girl who said it. Rachel. The girl who always sat behind him, two rows down. Had she ever spoken up in class before? Neat!

Shouts of protests broke out, causing blood to rush up Darren’s face. He grinned. Delighted—or mortified? He wasn’t sure. Students glanced away from their smartphones, creating lively chatter. Something that hadn’t happened since—well, two rotations ago, when Gabriel fainted right in the middle of a class for no apparent reason.

A faint shade of red crept up Teacher’s face. She pursed her lips and whipped out her smartphone. Punching away at the keypad, she announced out loud, Four points taken off. The hovering bot swivelled back to face the class, its array of circuits giving away no expression.

Not only Darren, but also the entire class, groaned.

Glancing at the screen, she said in a flat voice, The class average has now fallen below the benchmark of 500. It now stands at 497.

Carry on, intoned the bot. It shuddered into a lurch, then flew past the doorway.

Whew. The meddlesome hunk of metal had left. But he had to contend with an angry class.

Whines of protest abounded. If the class remained below 500 points by the end of the rotation, every one of them would be held back and have to start again. It was the way.

With a trace of irritation in her voice, Aden tilted her head in Darren’s direction. "Why should we have to suffer because of him?"

Because—

Aden swayed her head mockingly. I know, I know. ‘Together we rise, or together we fall’, she said. But can’t you make an exception in this case?

Yeah! piped up Gabriel. We just got unlucky. If we didn’t have this guy, we would have…

Enough! said Teacher. She jabbed her finger at the class. We do not pick on any one individual. Optima Terra believes that…

"…every individual has something to contribute," muttered a few dejected students, echoing her word for word.

Correct. She scanned the classroom. Now, one way to regain points is a group project to organize a student event, and Darren has to be part of it. Could a few people kindly volunteer?

Darren sank further in his chair.

The chirps of dozens of nimble fingers tapping over smartphones erased any uneasy silence in the classroom, as Darren’s glances darted back and forth.

Finally, a hand rose in the back row.

Tyler?

A well-built male teenager sporting a crew cut of light brown hair grinned. I’ll do it, Teacher. I’ll work with Darren.

Darren rolled his eyes toward his flatmate. Thank you, thank you, he mouthed.

The bell rang. Students scrambled out in a rush. More out of haste than usual, it seemed.

Amy! Darren urged, just as she picked up her backpack. He’d never sought her before, but now, she couldn’t vanish. Not just yet. Even if she’d cornered him in the hallway on Day One of Rotation, explaining the different zones of creatures in a lucid dream world. Since then, he’d steered clear of her. But King Mesmotopia? This was news. Or perhaps another of her crackpot theories.

He paused upon the sudden thought. If Amy spouted nonsense moments ago, why had Teacher panicked? Why did the bot rush into the classroom, such a rare sight?

A mess of red curls nearly smothered her freckled face. I really like the way you spoke up. Finally!

Thanks. Those eyes, full of warmth. Or was that crazed zeal? You were saying about history. How’d you find out?

The Library.

Darren leaned in. What’s the Library?

Oh, it’s a dusty old collection of books. I had a hard time there because I’m allergic to dust. I had to wear a mask practically the whole time…

Books? Really?

Yes. Hundreds of them. No, thousands.

Holy Sweet Pangea. Books, the kind he could hold in his hand. As rare here as the purple-spotted finch, which he once observed as a dreamy thirteen-ear-old out the classroom window several rotations ago. Where do you find this?

The only one on the planet. I found it on my rotation in Varmega. I was checking out the occult books, but I found the history section too. Her eyes rolled. Oh my Terra. The lies we’ve been fed.

His pulse quickened as he leaned in. Tell me more.

Her brown eyes darted left and right. Not here. Come to my flat.

Okay, gimme your address.

Sure. She reached for his smartphone, easily surrendered. She fast-tapped on it, typing in her address. Don’t tell anyone, okay?

Why?

You never know, she whispered.

Darren’s throat parched, too dry to swallow. He nodded at her, and hummed off-tune as he walked home.

Would you like the weather forecast? a robotic voice announced, nearly causing him to shriek. He caught his breath. That tinny voice. The same the world over—that of the weather bot, the ubiquitous hovering metallic ball that always popped up when one least expected it. Like crosswalk attendants, they persisted in offering advice, even if unwanted. Like the one which had invaded his classroom just an half hour ago. Was it that recent?

Sure, I guess, Darren said, his shoulders hunched. After that close call earlier, he dared not say no.

A beam of light shone from the sleek sphere, culminating two feet away in a holograph of weather symbols. A high of hundred and twenty-eight geribs tomorrow, followed by a short thunderstorm. Wind speed, northeasterly, of seventy-five amorphils per hour. No urgent warnings. It pressed further. Would you like the five-day forecast, master?

Thanks, Darren mumbled, I’ve heard enough.

Have a most satisfactory day, the bot replied, before spinning around once, taking off ten feet up. It zipped through the air, out of sight. It always hugged the horizon at the same height, ready to offer assistance to the next Optima Terran.

He sighed as he started walking again, heading home. Several minutes later, he shuffled into the living room.

His flat. The same as millions all over the world. The front door opened to a bedroom. Since there were two bedrooms, there were two entrances, one for each flatmate. Both bedrooms opened to three other rooms, shared by the two flatmates. The understanding was the resident of the flat would invite the guest through his—or her—own bedroom. The kitchen featured a stove, refrigerator, and icebox, all powered by solar energy; crystal-powered microwave; and cupboards full of food. The living room boasted a sofa, desk, and giant flat television screen. Finally, the bathroom offered the requisite sink, dry flush toilet, and shower stall.

Flats were free. So was food—that of the prepared variety, served fresh every day. Catch was, Darren had to attend to one of the food halls—where the citizens of Optima Terra’s disparate neighborhoods congregated, always sharing tables. Strangers chatted; eavesdropping was not only permitted, but encouraged. Grocery stores did exist, but everyone had to trade in some points to buy the food.

The planet’s name? Optima Terra. Perfect World.

Darren sighed with contentment as he peeled off his blue uniform, the dress code for school or work. He shared the exhilaration of millions of Optima Terrans as he—at exactly four o’clock—donned his purple uniform, the approved attire for leisure. Everyone headed home first, in an eager stampede to wear purple. Blue was associated with dignity. Work. Stiff upper lip. In contrast, purple was fun. Spontaneity. Relaxing, chilling. There was even a term for it. To go purple meant to go out. Collectively, they were all the Roatees. People who never stayed in a place for more than four months.

Man, what a day, he said to no one, rubbing the back of his neck.

Talking to yourself again, Darren? rang out the familiar cheerful voice.

He peeked into the living room. Yup, Tyler was there, resting on the sofa.

Hi, Ty.

His classmate sat up wearing a wide grin. Darren liked Tyler. He was the sort of guy who got along with everyone. Completely unpretentious. A good head on his shoulders.

Relaxing? Darren asked.

Not for long. Tyler stood up. He already had his purple outfit on. I’m heading over to Rory’s drop-in. Wanna come?

No, it’s okay.

Um, about what happened in class today…

Forget it.

No. You gotta stop being hard on yourself. Just let it go.

But… aren’t you curious? At all?

You mean what happened before New Era? That’s ancient history. They’re long dead. We decide what’s worth learning. Tyler poked himself in the chest, his eyes so translucent blue that Darren imagined he stared at two orbs of ocean.

Darren shrugged. Look at you. You’re doing great. You get good grades. The girls like you. He slumped onto the sofa, two seats away from Tyler.

Look. Half of the battle is believing in yourself.

Darren rolled his eyes. Yeah, right. Then everything takes care of itself?

You’re a good guy, Darren. Really.

Thanks, Ty. I guess I needed to hear that.

And remember. Keep working on those seventy-five thousand points, and you’ll be all set.

Darren groaned. I’ll be dead before then.

Tyler walked over to Darren, his upraised hand begging for a high-five. May the points be in your favor.

Thanks. Darren reciprocated with his high-five, and grimaced as Tyler slapped his palm hard, causing it to redden. For added good measure, Tyler lightly punched Darren on his shoulder. Attaboy. You gotta go out there and fight for your points. Tyler punched the air, miming a pro boxer. Darren sat back, grinning, and enjoying the spectacle.

Tyler blinked, and let his arms drop.

But, Darren said, flashing Tyler his screen. His Life Card. Like all other technology, the smartphone rapidly evolved to replace the old paper card, even taking over its revered title. I only have 551 points!

Numbers don’t lie.

Look at Aden. She’s shallow and mean. Yet, she has 1,451 points, while Amy has only about 600.

Here, we’re a collective. We decide things together.

How does a number define me, anyway? Aren’t we more than that?

Tyler flashed an easy smile. I always thought you had the spirit of a rebel. You just want to… tear everything down.

Yeah, you know what? Actually, I do. It’s stupid.

And then what? How would you make things different?

He paused, his chin down. I would…I’m not sure.

Well, you’re only seventeen. So cool it bro, wait for the moment.

I guess so. Thanks, Ty.

And stay away from the Grannies.

Darren groaned. Not the old ladies who went about their business, clueless like everyone else. No, the Grannies. He spotted them down the street, with their scrunched-up mouths. Each had a piercing stare and an eerie, wicked smile, ready to lecture anyone who didn’t conform to the ideals of Optima Terra. Such as please don’t jaywalk across the street. Those over age fifty who attained the lifetime payload of seventy-five thousand points eagerly packed to head off to Gold—the Paradise zone. But those poor old bats who fell short of the payload? They had nowhere to go.

Yeah, you bet I will, Darren said.

Anyway, I’m off. Bye, pal.

Bye, Ty.

Alone, Darren craved the silence. He switched off his smartphone and tossed it onto the side table. Yet, millions of his fellow citizens liked to eyeball those tiny screens, the tidbits fueling their trite addictions. They cluttered their minds with electronic babble.

But Darren sought boredom. His mind, in voiceless peace, plumbed its bottomless reservoir of visions that shot everywhere but landed nowhere. He liked to lie back, close his eyes, and hum as his grey matter sparked links to vital concepts, drawing them into a tighter web.

The public announcement system on the wall blared, Attention, all residents. Junior co-ed puntball to start at 4:30 in the Blenko Field. Join with your friends, come one, come all, everyone is welcome. Then, at five o’clock, senior lawn bowling in the Granger Field…

Puntball—where two teams chased and threw a weirdly shaped ball in order to score goals. With cone-like extensions at opposite ends, this ball wobbled when rolling along the ground, offering the bewildered players little clue where it would end up.

The announcement droned on with false cheer, but Darren had already leaped to his feet.

Ty’s right. I can do this, he said to no one. Punching the air much like Tyler had done minutes ago, Darren exalted in his newfound spirit. He stumbled briefly, then roared, I’m going to puntball, and no one will stop me! He mimed a few high kicks, pretending he was battling a villain. Take that! he hollered, kicking one leg up as he leaned sideways. Swiveling, he executed a uppercut with his right arm…

Crash!

A lamppost fell to the floor, recoiling from the sudden blow, glass shattered. Whoops, he said. Touching his temples, he moaned, Aww, jeez, jeez…

Looking at the clock, he did a double take. 4:15. Time to go.

A sharp stab of pain, right underneath his big toe.

Oww, ow! he shrieked, hopping on his right foot. He plopped himself onto the sofa to examine his left foot, twisting his left leg into a half-pretzel position. Shards of glass stuck out from the sole, and crimson seeped through his white sock. Shit, he muttered, as he pulled out the sharp glass piece by piece, his sock still on. Shit.

The Evil Eye at the Puntball Game

Darren ran with a conspicuous limp two blocks to Blenko Field. Gasping for breath, he bent over, hands on thighs, as he entered the side of the park. The Life Card post stood nearby.

Floodlights blazed the lush field, the bleachers packed with dozens of spectators. No, I can’t do this, he moaned.

Yes, boy, you can and you will, said a female voice behind him.

Darren lurched, spinning around. The grey-haired lady, slightly stooped, held a handbag that seemed heavier than her frail frame. Ma’am, he said. The Granny, her identity unmasked by her laser-focused gaze.

Don’t be afraid, she said in a voice that sounded halfway between a hurrah and a scold. What’s the worst that can happen, falling on your face?

Actually, yes.

You’re a big guy. She latched onto him with a bony hand like a claw, stunning Darren with her forceful strength.

He broke free of her iron grip. Okay, okay, he said, holding up his hands. I’ll do it.

Under her scornful glare, he walked over to the Life Card post. Being taller than average, he bent down slightly to align with the electronic sensor at the base of the pole. There his microchip lay, embedded deep within his bellybutton. The round light beeped and glowed bright green in approval. The computer announced—was that a voice of surprise?—Two points, Darren Dekko, sports event, Blenko Park. On the day of birth, every baby on Optima Terra was implanted with a microchip in their bellybutton, which linked to the smartphone network. Collectively they constituted the Life Card. Someone lose his phone? Just trigger the Find Owner app on the screen, and it beeped only when its owner was within one foot. Otherwise, the kind-hearted finder would just drop off the phone at a depository in town, for the wayward owner to collect.

As Darren entered nearby the bleachers, someone stared at him, mouth wide. Unnerved, he turned.

Hi, Amy, he mumbled, jerking his head back by a fraction of an inch. Seeing Amy sitting there was like seeing snowballs in the Recenzo zone, which straddled the equator.

Her mouth still hung open and her eyes appeared glazed, as if she were possessed by a demon. Darren… I never thought I would see you here, she protested from her seat, her voice high-pitched. Why’d you register? Are you actually going to play? Several heads turned.

Darren’s face grew hot. Shh, not so loud. Yes, I’m playing.

Hunched, her fingers curled as she pointed at him, she said, Watch out. There’s an evil spirit here. Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.

His legs heavy as lead, Darren walked over to the center of the puntball field. 1,000-watt floodlights aimed straight at him as everyone craned necks. Plus, his noticeable limp tarnished any pretense of cool confidence. He stumbled, but recovered.

Ben just ahead, his massive frame filling out his purple outfit nicely. Massive pads and that shiny puntball helmet made him look twice as big. When he saw Darren, he twice punched into the palm of his other hand.

Aden faced him, her arms crossed. She flashed him an evil grin before mouthing him the words I’m gonna get you.

As he slow-walked, he recognized more classmates among the two teams, but it was hard to be certain with all those helmets on.

Really, he should walk away, and back out. Sweat broke out on his brow.

But the referee had already approached him, his face benign. You’re late, he said.

Yeah. Sorry.

Well, kid, there are two teams, and they both have the same number of players. So let me talk to them.

No. No.

Captains forward, please, the referee shouted, cupping his hands.

Darren’s spirit plummeted as Ben and Aden emerged from the teams and broke into a short dash up to the referee.

One of you has to take him, the referee said.

Aden shot a dirty look at Darren. I know him, she said. She snarled at Ben, You take him.

Nice try, loser, Ben retorted. We’re both full. Now, let’s go back to the game…

Wait a second, Ben, the referee admonished him, You know the rules. Everyone, regardless of experience, has to play.

I’m not taking him, Aden said, biting off each word one at a time. She walked away, her hips swaying.

Hey, Aden, called out someone from her team, C’mon. Let him play. It’s no big deal. Darren’s heart leaped. Rachel it was, going by the messy dark brown curls cascading underneath her helmet.

Stay out of it, Rachel, snarled Aden.

Aden, the referee called out, You are violating the spirit of the game. For this insensitive remark, I am going to assign Darren to your team. He placed a hand on Darren’s shoulder and gave him a helmet. Now, go play and have fun.

Aden rolled her eyes as she walked back to the threesome. On the bouncy padded turf, she turned to him and mumbled obscenities.

Finally, as they were halfway back to her team, she halted, and whispered fiercely to Darren. You don’t know anything about puntball, right?

No, Darren sighed. How’d you know?

Heather and I are besties. Heather is friends with Jyoti, and Jyoti is a friend of that weirdo, Amy. And Amy really likes you. She glared and pointed at Amy’s tiny figure up in the stands. In defense, a sitting Amy cast an evil eye on Aden, holding up her fingers in a clawed position.

You know everything.

That’s my job. Now, do me a favor. Just stay out of our way, and we’ll leave you alone at school. Got it?

Got it.

But over the next hour and a half, as if playing in slow motion and in jerky starts and stops over a poor live-streamed connection, a woefully incompetent Darren blew the game. After their team lost 3-21, Aden screamed at him. Her trembling fingers dancing over her smartphone, she docked him three points. Darren groaned at his points tally. It’d taken only minutes to plummet. An astounding twenty-two points docked by everyone, including the spectators, just because he dared to join a puntball game.

Sorry, said Rachel as he plodded by. If it’s worth anything to you, I gave you two points, just for trying. She puckered her lips and gave him her best sad look.

Thanks, he mumbled. Should he be grateful? Everyone had a maximum of five points to give every day, as well as five points to deduct. However, the Life Card usually sniffed through any point-stacking scheme, like giving your friend five points per day, over and over. In such egregious cases, the Life Card automatically docked you ten points for each violation of the rules. Exceptions remained for elderly, frail persons close to death.

Amy sprang up out of nowhere when Darren exited the field. I told you, she said, crossing her arms.

What? groaned Darren, his right leg throbbing. His bandaged left foot still made him limp, but he hobbled even worse. His bruised sides still ached, reminding him he had ribs.

I told you not to play. There was an evil spirit chasing you.

Darren said nothing to the wild-eyed teenager.

Honestly, Darren, you exhausted me. I spent all evening trying to ward off this presence. It’s just so not fair, she whined. Loser, she spat as she walked away.

We still on for the, uh, history lesson? he called after her. You know, the Library?

A smile slowly crept up her face. Tomorrow, at seven.

I’ll be there., he yelled back.

As Darren trudged home, the game played over like a reel in his head. He’d done just one beautiful tackle during the whole game. Trouble was, it was upon Jake, his own teammate.

Let’s see. He’d fumbled the ball about seven times. And caught it—he squinted—yup, zero times. And got entangled in a massive pile-on, right at the very bottom. That explained his throbbing right leg, sore ribs, and maybe even that sharp pain in his groin. In that pile-on… it might’ve been Jenny, the girl he avoided in class due to her squeaky voice. Did she jab her elbow into his private parts? Talk about sneaky revenge!

Tyler had arrived back home much earlier than Darren had expected. He lay on the couch, with his right foot perched on the armrest. Instead of the usual breezy smile, an angry grimace marked his face.

Thanks a lot, man. I stepped on these stupid glass pieces you left behind.

The Banality of the Cuddling Exercises

Teacher William Delikata, a short balding man with a thin frame and a pot belly, peered through thick glasses at his teacher’s manual. Now, we’re going to, umm, do the cutlery exercises.

Darren sat, scrutinizing the puzzled glances.

Oh, sorry, Teacher said, breaking out in a sweat, wiping with his sleeve. "I meant cuddling exercises."

Chortles reverberated throughout the room. They’d heard second-hand accounts of those dreaded cuddling exercises, now imminent.

Reading the manual out loud, his voice lurched. Warn the students first… He shook his head. Sorry. The cuddling exercises are meant to encourage intimacy. It’s the role of our society, you know, umm…

Drew raised his hand. To score with babes, right?

Giggles echoed.

Teacher laughed nervously, springing up and down on the balls of his feet. No, no, he said. It’s meant to encourage bonding between men and women, and you do so, uhh… He glanced at the manual with awkward pauses. …the objective is to set up a comfortable environment between the responsible man and the liberated woman where their chests may approximate each other at the point of contact…

Aden spoke up. It’s okay, Teacher. We totally get it. So how does it work? Do we pick our partners, or…

Hold on, hold on. Now, as you know, we remove any bias, and encourage everyone to be equal. I have drawn up a list totally at random, matching you based on your sexual preferences…

Groans ensued.

At the back of the class, two female students already known to be dating each other began giggling.

Excellent, said Teacher, as he glanced at his list, and scribbled their names onto the list, rearranging some other names. All done.

After corralling the students, Teacher strolled up and down the aisles like an inspirational speaker, all pumped up. Line up against the wall, boys on that side. The girls will find the boys on the list. Each girl will find her mate… I mean, the boy.

After much kerfuffle, Darren saw Rachel stand next to him. Now that he had to hug her, he let his eyes rest on her. Wild russet brown hair that she couldn’t tame. Today, she had it tied in the form of a ponytail, but several strands concealed her bushy eyebrows.

Hi, Rachel said in a soft voice.

Hi, Darren mumbled, hoping he didn’t sound as if he had a mouthful of mouthwash.

I guess it’s us.

I guess so. By the way, thanks for the support after the game. It meant a lot to me.

No problem. I just feel bad for the way everyone treated you.

Darren looked down to the floor.

You know, she said, touching his hands, Not everyone’s a great athlete. But I like it when you spoke out yesterday.

She turned away from him and toward Teacher, who scooted about from couple to couple. He returned to his desk. Speaking to the ceiling, he said, Dim lights, please, by twenty percent.

The lights did as they were told.

Music, please, he said, "I Want You, by Koroke Yashu."

Oh my Terra, Aden whispered to her assigned male partner, Ben, as she rolled her eyes. They play that at the seniors bingo hall.

The non-offensive music warbled through the speakers at the corners. Teacher held up his hands high and wide. You may now begin. Remember, close in, and touch lightly. If you girls find any of the boys behaved inappropriately, you may file a complaint form on my desk. As girlish titters tickled ears, Teacher looked up and pointed. That goes for the girls too.

Silence.

He twirled one hand with a flourish. Remember, the key is to make your partner relax. Gain intimacy. Gain his—or her—trust.

One by one, the couples embraced. Some started swaying to the bland music.

Darren gulped as he glanced down at the line of cuddling couples. Some of them had dreamlike expressions on their faces, their eyes shut.

Rachel scowled at Darren, signaling are you going to make a move or not?

Finally, Darren stepped forward. His arms fumbled about for a place to rest behind her back. Teacher’s voice, disembodied, insisted, Find a topic—try to make it intimate.

Her emerald-green eyes peered at him, but the glance was of curiosity, rather than feigned boredom. "What do you want to talk about?’

Well, uh… Think, think! What’s your favorite color?

She scowled back, and he clamped down on his gulp. No, no.

Sorry. He nested his chin onto her shoulder, bending over slightly. The better to stave off humiliation. Buy time. Let the music run out.

Rachel shrugged off his embrace so he could see her face. Her eyebrows knitted, she asked, Have you thought about your mother?

Wait, whoa, what? His mother? Still, it was an excellent question, even if the topic dared not arise for polite discussion on Optima Terra. The issue everyone thought of, but never volunteered.

Can’t say, why?

I think about mine, Rachel insisted, swaying to the music that was dull as dishwater. I wonder what she looks like. Where she is now.

Darren nodded.

Do you? It wasn’t just a question. It was a plea for empathy.

Sometimes, he admitted. What made you think of her?

You know the gates?

He did. The Gates. The entry point, also exit, for any rotation. Massive terminals, consisting of the big two—planes and trains. Gigantic platforms and hundreds of service counters, designed for only one purpose: to assist millions of people transit from