The Pink Test

Naomi’s fingers drummed nervously against her thigh. She’d never heard of anyone else getting called in to speak to the Primary Fertility Assessor about the results of their Pink Test. Normally, that dreaded letter arrived by mail—an unnecessarily chunky envelope stuffed with reasons and justifications for the final verdict. No one cared about any of that, though. All they wanted was that big pink number at the bottom of the last page. The number that decided a person’s fertility.

Naomi had only done the test to keep Lauren company. Ever since their desks had been switched around on the first day of fourth grade, placing the two girls beside each other and cementing their friendship, Naomi had known that Lauren loved babies. Absolutely adored them. Not in a creepy way or anything, but Lauren pointed out infants and toddlers passing by the way most people pointed out dogs. Except it was always accompanied by a squeal of delight and a tug at Naomi’s arm, dragging her across roads, or playgrounds, or malls just to coo at chubby cheeks and miniature running shoes.

The trend had carried through high school to university to the beginnings of their careers, and now, finally, to the Office of Fertility Affairs. Lauren’s dreams of carrying and raising children all hinged in the results from the Authorized Fertility Assessment, or as it was more widely known, the Pink Test. She’d spent the night before her twenty-fifth birthday camped in front of the office so she could be first in line when the doors opened at nine o’clock sharp. Naomi had stayed with her, more for moral support than an actual desire to see how her fertility ranked. In fact, when Naomi turned twenty-five four months ago, she’d completely forgotten that she’d reached the age of reproductive eligibility. Taking that sixth shot of tequila had seemed far more important at the time.

Yet, here she sat, on a plush loveseat in the OFA, waiting, for some reason, for the PFA to personally read her results. Lauren had gotten hers this morning. 6.45. A pretty decent score, so long as she found someone with a 7.55 or higher. Not a huge ask, but Lauren had other criteria for her perfect man, and several of her dealbreakers weren’t conducive to a high rank in fertility. Tall, muscular men tended to score low, which usually worked for them since reproducing wasn’t high on their list when scanning for prospects at bars and clubs. Naomi knew this all too well: one-nights weren’t afraid to ask if she was looking for pleasure or pregnancy from their hookup.

That was the name of the dating game now. If you weren’t looking to procreate and plastering your Pink Test numbers all over your dating profiles, then you were basking in the government-sanctioned infertility by humping any consenting adult. Naomi was in the latter category. For the most part. The idea of having kids had always been an afterthought—something other people planned for, like retirement funds and dental insurance. But with a baby-crazy best friend like Lauren, the thought had always seemed like a distant possibility. If the right person came along, sure, it might be fun to tally up their Pink Test ranks to see if they managed to score at least a 14. But it wasn’t something on the long list of achievements she hoped to accomplish before the Office of Attrition Affairs came calling and her tissues were recycled for future use.

Gosh, she was getting hungry. Why was this taking so long? She got up and walked around the office, barely refraining from poking through the papers that sat atop the rustic, walnut desk. Her file had to be among the many manila folders neatly stacked beside the slightly dated computer. There was no way her results would be on that, though. The public sector continued to use paper even though the rest of the world had moved to be completely digital. It was the classic juxtaposition of every government body: advanced in its rules and policies, dated in its technology and equipment.

Besides the folders and ancient computer, the desk only housed one other item: a family photo of the PFA and her family, all of them clad in matching sweaters and beaming brightly on an autumn afternoon. Naomi raised an eyebrow slightly. Mom, dad, two teenage girls, a middle-grade son. Jeez. The PFA must have ranked highly to have been approved for so many children.

“You’re not wrong.”

Naomi started. She whirled around to find three people striding into the room led by the real-life PFA, who wore the same grin as the photo, though the marionette lines around her mouth were slightly more defined. Naomi sheepishly backtracked to the couch, stammering an apology for snooping. The PFA waved this away.

“I’d expect nothing less after we kept you waiting so long, Naomi. And I know what you’re thinking. Three kids? When most can’t even get approved for one? But when your combined rank is 17.63, it suddenly becomes your civic duty to procreate. Luckily, my partner and I both love kids. I’m Jennifer, by the way. Jennifer Parikh.” She extended a hand, and Naomi took it. The grip was firm but fair, and the PFA never broke eye contact, even after she joined Naomi on the loveseat.

“These are my colleagues. Dr. Zane Vincent.” The PFA opened her palm to a short, mustached man in a perfectly tailored three-piece suit who sad on the armchair adjacent to the loveseat. “And Adria Monet, the head of our litigation team.” A woman with long, luscious brown hair that fell to her waist hovered by the door. She clicked away on a tablet computer, only giving Naomi a quick glance in greeting. “They’re here to discuss your results with us today. Before we begin, can I get you something to drink?”

Naomi’s throat felt tight. A doctor and a lawyer? She didn’t know exactly what to expect from this meeting, but it had never occurred to her that she might be in trouble. The OFA was almost universally regarded as one of the more scrupulous departments, so it wasn’t often in the news for scandals. Not that many government bodies were anymore. Since the Great Divide of Nations decades ago, corruption in authority had become almost non-existent.

“Black coffee, please.” Naomi’s voice sounded stringy and weak. She swallowed hard, hoping to quell some of the fears creeping into her thoughts. Whatever this was all about, she knew she’d have a say in the outcome, which was more than the women who lived in the Land of the Proud and Free could say. In the LPAF, women’s rights were more like a shadow mandate than a reinforced law.

The PFA politely asked Adria to input the order. The tapping thrummed against Naomi’s eardrums, making her wince slightly. She wasn’t one to get overstimulated by sounds, but with three high-ranking officials staring her down, every sense felt on edge.

“I know you’re wondering why we called you here today,” the PFA began, twisting to place an arm on the couch’s backrest and face Naomi directly. “You’ve already gone through enough to get your Pink Test, what with the blood samples, the physical trials, the swabs and scrapings…it’s a lot. But, Naomi, we’re so rigorous with the testing to guarantee we’re as accurate as possible with the results. Not everyone is destined to have children, and some genetics are indeed essential to carry on. Here at the OFA, we do not discriminate based on socioeconomic standing, race, religion, physical, or mental ability. In fact, did you know that every Pink Test is assessed blindly? Our evaluators only look at the genetics to make their decisions, keeping out biases and prejudices.”

Of course, Naomi knew this. Everyone did. In an effort to limit the population, the United Front of Progression had instilled the Fertility Decree a few years after the Great Divide of Nations. Naomi was a direct product of this: her generation consisted mostly of single-child families, some of whom only existed because their parents’ numbers matched better than their romantic compatibility. Though Naomi’s parents actually liked each other, an increasingly rare pairing these days.

The coffee arrived on a WaiterBot. Its cuboid frame bumped right up to the couch and nearly spilled the scalding drink all over the grey, flatweave rug at their feet. It droned Naomi’s order, thrust a mug into her hands by means of a retractable tray, bid them all a nice day, and left as Naomi took the first sip. The smooth, rich flavours blended on her tongue and nose, transporting her to yesterday morning when everything in her life was calm and normal and she wasn’t discussing her genetics with strangers. She took another deep whiff and exhaled slowly.

“Do you know the average result of a Pink Test, Naomi?” Dr. Vincent leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. Naomi couldn’t help but wonder how long he spent twirling his mustache into perfect arches each morning. Five minutes? Fifteen?

“No,” Naomi said, which was the truth. Lauren might have that answer locked and loaded, but Naomi was far happier housing knowledge about hangover cures and the best salmon steak in the city.

“Five point six-seven. Seems low, doesn’t it?” Dr. Vincent frowned sympathetically. “Averages can be tricky like that. And to be quite frank, our testing is unforgiving. Not everyone is thrilled with their result, and we welcome contestation, but the facts speak for themselves. Impartiality is our status quo. No one has ever swayed our opinion or found grounds to refute our evidence. And don’t think people haven’t tried. Gosh, we’ve turned down some of the most influential people on the planet. Money can’t buy better genes, unfortunately.”

He let out a sad laugh, and Naomi wondered how he’d scored. It was almost impossible the guess based strictly on physical features, though his yellowed nail beds and puffy skin couldn’t have worked in his favour. But, like he’d said, averages can be tricky.

“Naomi, what do you think you got on your Pink Test?” The PFA asked, craning her neck to look over Naomi’s head and nodding at Adria for some unspoken request. Deft fingers tapped away mechanically.

Naomi shrugged, trying to think of her family’s history. Her mother and father weren’t keen to discuss their upbringings. She was pretty sure her dad’s parents had died in car accident when he was in his early twenties, and her mom went no-contact after her side of the family decided to live in the LFAP. And it was never a big mystery how Naomi inherited her straight, light brown hair, dark eyes and swarthy skin from a mom with a tawny complexion and a dad with a strong Germanic heritage. Nothing to elicit anything other than ordinary genetics.

“Well, why don’t you take a look at your results.” The PFA nodded again, and Adria, who had moved so swiftly and silently beside the couch that Naomi jumped, shoved the tablet forward.

In a blocky, pink font, the numbers 9.68 took up the entire screen.

Naomi’s brows pinched together. She read it again, her eyes tracing the lines of the digits like they might have some hidden meaning. There was supposed to be a reaction right now. She was supposed to be feeling something about those numbers. But her mind was simply…blank.

“Oh, wow!” Naomi offered, hoping she sounded excited. Or maybe she wasn’t supposed to sound excited. Maybe this was actually bad news. “Um, I mean…Look at that.”

Dr. Vincent let out a throaty laugh—definitely a smoker—and the PFA smiled.

“This is the highest result any of us has ever seen, Naomi,” the PFA said. “Actually, it might be the highest in our nation. Do you understand what that means?”

Again, Naomi shrugged. She was feeling more and more foolish by the second. Lauren would have known exactly what all of this meant and would have acted appropriately. But Naomi? The girl who’d switched majors seven times in university before finally settling on a communications degree because she’d already completed most of the required courses while hopping around? Who’d never even had a serious relationship because commitment felt boring? And who still lived with her parents even though she made seriously good money at her job? She was the one with the top score for procreating? What kind of sick twist of fate was that?

“We want to offer you an opportunity, Naomi,” the PFA continued as if any part of this made sense. “There’s a program for people like you. It’s called Vitalis, and it’s meant for those with high genetic scores to find a comparable partner. We think you’d be a perfect fit, if you’re interested of course. Zero pressure to join, but we had to do our due diligence and offer you a spot. Here, let me show you the community.”

The number on the tablet was suddenly replaced by pictures of cute cottages adorned with ivy and flowers. The PFA explained how each member of Vitalis got their own home, a job that aligned with their current position, nightly events to mix and mingle with others in the program, access to all the amenities like grocery stores, restaurants, and entertainment. Each image was quainter and more beautiful than the last, showing brand-new appliances in the kitchens, artfully designed parks and communal spaces, and even a small beach with sandy shores and bright blue water.

“Once you find a partner, you’ll be given the resources to move anywhere you wish. Well, I should say almost anywhere. Only nations allied with the UFroPro have authorized citizenship within their boundaries, but I assure you the process is seamless and easy as pie.” The PFA chuckled as she swiped back to the atrociously high Pink Test result.

“Now we have to be sure you know all the parameters, Naomi,” Adria said. Naomi had expected her to sound similar to her appearance: wispy, feminine, and demure. Instead, Adria’s voice was like a drill sergeant. “While finding a partner to continue your genetic line is of the utmost importance, we can’t risk losing any of your reproductive material. Preserving women’s cells is of particular importance as usually only one viable egg is produced a month...”

Naomi blinked. Wait. Preserving?

 “…If you decide to join the Vitalis, we’ll be requesting that you donate unfertilized eggs. This is just a precaution in case you don’t find a compatible partner and decide to procreate with someone in a lower ranking.”

Naomi’s head jerked towards Adria to find the lawyer’s face unreadable. Take her eggs? Was that ethical? Maybe Naomi needed to have a legal team of her own read through these documents. She had so many questions yet couldn’t put a single one into words. A much smarter woman might know exactly what to say, but Naomi felt like she was trying to think through a sieve. 

A warm hand touched her forearm, and Naomi looked into the kind face of the PFA.

“This is a lot to take in, I know. Why don’t you take some time to read through our package about the program? We can circle back in a few days to see how you’re feeling. Nothing has to be decided right now Naomi, so please try not to stress about this. And remember, there’s no wrong answer. Not joining Vitalis is perfectly acceptable. Your body and genetics are yours, and we have no say in the path you choose.”

With that, Naomi was handed a thick stack of papers, including a hard copy of her Pink Test results. Dr. Vincent encouraged her to write down all her thoughts, and Adria insisted they all return to the PFA’s office at the same time in three days. With a final handshake from each of them, Naomi was sent on her way.

 As she stumbled dazedly from the building, Naomi’s senses finally kicked in. If she went along with this, she’d lose her own free will. Forget finding a suitable partner; this was borderline LPAF breeding territory. And these people—these officials—had thrown the information at her like it was the results of a midterm report card. Then expected an answer right away, hoping the shock value might sway her into acquiescence.

Naomi tipped the pamphlets into the first trash can she saw. No one was going to control her. Not while she still had a breath in her body. She smiled at the decision, almost positive it was the right one. Seriously, what kind of idiot would sign up for that?

From the seventh floor of the OFA, the PFA watched Naomi walk down the street and disappear around the corner. Her lips twitched as someone else threw a drink onto the papers in the garbage, turning the pages into a soggy sludge. But it was okay. She knew Naomi would be at their next meeting. Adventure-seekers couldn’t resist the allure of change. Though there was always a choice—and the PFA would respect whatever Naomi decided—girls like them always needed to peek behind the curtain to know the truth.

The PFA took a sip of her coffee and got ready for her next meeting.