The Hall Of Fathers

I brush the non-existing dust off the skirt of my pink tulle dress and scratch my left wrist. My small, glittering shoe finally crosses the line. The scanner in the floor reads my approach and the tall doors of riveted, lacquered wood spread open. I enter the Hall of Fathers.

Its absolute silence wraps me tightly in a cocoon. It seems to suck out the air together with the sounds of my breath and beating heart. My lungs hurt, but the next moment my ears pop and the sensation is gone. I gulp air and uncurl my fists.

Underneath me is the big circle of the Legitimacy Seal – the eagle with the serpent’s body spreads its wings wide, its bulging eye staring at me with its camera lens. The thick arcane script of the old alphabet shimmers around the edges. So, this is the decontamination/security shaft other kids scare you with.

I wait till the glow of the letters fades – I don’t want to be fried by the energy field. Still biting my lip, I step out of the ring – the seal has not dumped me into the eject chute. I am deemed worthy.

The Hall runs far into the distance, brightly lit so that none of the portraits are lost to shadows. They hung in pairs, exactly opposite each other, every man drawn en face, so when I stop to observe the images, I feel like I am interrupting their staring game. Intrusions are rude, we are taught. I almost expect one of those square, stately faces to open their mouth and chastise me. Or whatever fathers do to reprimand the kids.

At first it is really hard to tell – human painters often make skin glowing and poreless in their works. And who would want the Fathers to look anything but perfect?! But as I walk further up the aisle, I notice other details – the slightly misshapen, squinting eyes, the weird angle of a cheekbone and, God forbid, an extra finger on the hand. The backgrounds also get vaguer. All Fathers have been AI-created.

It does not mean they are unreal! My mind rails. Their figures are just too important to be trusted to any human artist. Just like they are too exalted to stay among us.

My heart gives a jolt and my throat constricts. I blink off tears. My eyes are glued to another painting – the face on it is more elongated, the forehead creased with a deep wrinkle, and the trimmed beard is the colour of salt and pepper. I tiptoe and tilt my head, trying to catch his gaze, but the painted man seems to be looking at a completely different reality. Like I am a part of a Magic Eye picture, but he cannot find me among all the abstract. Am I truly worthy?

Still, I wish I had my phone with me to take a picture of this particular portrait. Not for my social media – I don’t want my classmates staring at it. There is some affinity between us. Perhaps, similar eye shape? Or so I want to think. All of my gadgets, however, even the Minnie watch, are resting in the storage box at security.

Unwillingly I walk onward. My time here is limited, and I’ve heard some kids are not allowed in for the second time in the future. Like they have become less worthy. So, I want to see all the Fathers before the lights go out and I am left with only a narrow strip of neon arrows on the floor to find the exit (or so the instruction says).

My mind goes back to the android we have at home. It is a full male replica with nothing androgynous about it, like with other service models. It looks like Prince Charming and it is as strong as Terminator; his parenting programming has all the latest updates, so that none of my teenage rebellions actually work. I mean I can’t even be angry with him like I am with mum when she manages to stifle my protest. It’s not worth the effort, because he will find a way around it as well. He is not my father, though. My sister and I are calling him Foster or Warden in accordance with the rules, by his serial number when he pisses us off but we cannot retaliate.

The quality of the portraits gets worse by the end of the hall, but for me they all look prettier than our home synthetic man. I mean, the AIs must have had their pictures to transform into paintings. The small defects only mean the people on the walls were once alive, wherever and for whatever reason they had left. Apart from the extra fingers, of course.

I linger at the last two, turning from left to right and back. The right one is blond, the left one is ginger (very rare). I pick at a sequin on the tulle until it comes off, then start on the next one. The lights are still on, and all those imposing men seem to be following me with their fixed gazes. I speed up, collecting the broken sequins into my palm, not to litter the sacral floor. It’s the beginning of the transformation, and I want them to witness it. I want to earn their approval.

But they say nothing, of course. And when the darkness falls over the room, my hand shakes, spilling some of the rainbowy plastic. It will stay there till the evening cleaning. Or perhaps, the next person will report it and the janitor will come earlier. It’s for the best, I try to tell myself.

Straight out of the museum I go to the nearest fast-food restaurant and lock myself in the toilet cabin. I have my backpack with me again – bulky black one, which doesn’t fit the dress at all. I wrench off the tulle dress and change into jeans and a male shirt. The latter is too big for me, so I have to roll on the sleeves like six times. Back upstairs in the main hall I order a Super Protein Burger and a large coke. No more small fries and apple slices or ice-cream for the princesses.

I sit down in the corner and open my online application. The tulle sticking out of the paper bin in the toilet is only the beginning. I will never be called a Father or get into that Hall. I am not sure I want to. Maybe, only for them to consider me for once. Like the final proof of my worthiness. That I did not disappoint them. That I did what was required of me.

Technically, it can be any of us – either me, or my sister. But I am older – I feel like it’s my duty. Besides, she loves her dresses so much, and she is much prettier in them. Some senior students in the school were telling that they could not wait for this day to come, that they did not feel good about themselves when they were girls. I want to be able to tell the same, but I am not sure. Sometimes I feel it in me, sometimes Foster calls me a tomboy.

But, honestly, what do we know about men apart from the dry facts in anatomy textbooks and Tenets in the Legitimacy brochures? We can only rely on the fiction films and books that are approved. I fill in the forms – for pills, medical procedures and psychological support. What does it matter? I have my favourites from that fiction, and when they make the facial design, I can ask for a few features from those portraits. One of those in the Hall is my forefather and I will make him proud of me. Even if he never knows.