Short Story by Camila Vargas

One hundred and fifty years into the future the government perfected what it called The Engine. Every choice, every kindness, every lie, every moment was recorded. On a person’s fifteenth birthday, at the minute of their birth The Engine would project a single word above their head. Their name.

Not a name chosen by parents. Not a nickname earned from friends. A true name, one that defined who you were.

Hi. I’m 2–7641. That’s what I’m called for now, my almost-name. On October first at 2:16 a.m 2176, I will be given my real one. I try not to think about it too much but that’s impossible when everyone else does nothing but think about it.

At school the halls are full of floating words. They hover  three inches above people’s heads, glowing in a pale blue light. Honest. Follower. Cruel. Loyal. Ambitious. You can’t hide.

I’ve spent the last few nights staring at my parents’ names. My mother’s is Truth. It shines above her like it belongs there. She earned it too, she never lies, not even the gentle ones. My father’s name is Provider. His glows brighter when he’s tired, which is often. He works long shifts in the factory, making sure that our family has enough essentials. He doesn’t talk much. Everything he does is for someone else. My parents are good people.

Which makes it worse.

Because names don’t measure who your parents are. They measure you. And I don’t know what mine will be.

Everyone pretends not to care what name they’ll get. That’s the rule; caring too much is seen as a sign of being superficial. This tends to earn you an unpleasant word. Still the night before birthdays, families gather, candles are lit, people cry or smile.

There are stories, of course. Warnings passed down like folklore. Don’t steal. Don’t cheat. Don’t lie too much. Be careful what you think when you’re alone. The Engine sees that too… 

Three days before my birthday, a government letter arrives. It’s thin. My mother reads it first. Her name flickers, that’s when I know something is wrong. “Pack a bag” she says. “Just essentials.” My father doesn’t ask questions.

“What’s happening?” I ask.She hesitates. For the first time in my life Truth looks afraid.

“They want to observe you” she says. “Closely.”

The facility is underground, all white walls. They lead me into a room with no mirrors, no screens, just a single chair and a man with a word above his head.

Correction.

He looks at me the way I look at my algebra homework. “You know who you are,” he says.

“I know what I’m called.” I reply, “That’s not the same.” A small smile appears across his face.

“Interesting”, he murmurs. “You haven’t been named yet.”

I swallow. “Why am I here?”

“Because you don’t fit in” he says.

He explains that The Engine has been tracking me more closely than most. Not because I’m bad or good but because I’m inconsistent. I help people anonymously. Then I walk away when they thank someone else. I tell the truth even when it hurts. Then I lie when honesty would make me look heroic. I sabotage myself. I don’t behave like someone trying to earn a name.

“And that worries you?” I ask.

“It confuses the system.” he replies.

On the night of my birthday at 2:16 a.m. I feel it before I see it, a warmth above my head.

My parents watch holding hands. The word appears. It isn’t bright blue. It’s gold. Becoming. The room is silent. Then alarms scream, screens flash, and the word flickers. Becoming disappears. Then, Choice. Then, Change. The system looks like it’s panicking. 

I raise my head. One final word remains. Unwritten. The alarms die. I suddenly understood. Names were never meant to be cages. I am not 2–7641 anymore. I am the proof that the future is still something we choose.