Sins Of Our Fathers
resentment
John Chen had spent four years building the kind of transcript that used to mean something. 4.3 GPA, captain of the orbital mechanics club, two summers interning at the Ganymede atmospheric research station. He sat in the worn plastic chair across from Brad’s desk, watching the chimpanzee flip through his file with those long, dexterous fingers.
“Mars Tech,” Brad said, not looking up. “Europa Institute. Titan College of Engineering.” He made a sound in his throat, something between a hum and a grunt. “Ambitious.”
“My scores are good enough.” John leaned forward. “I ran the numbers. Last year’s admitted class, my profile would have put me in the seventy-third percentile.”
Brad closed the folder. His eyes, brown and deep-set beneath that heavy brow, held an expression John couldn’t quite read. Pity, maybe. Or just fatigue.
“Last year’s numbers don’t apply anymore, John.”
“What do you mean?”
Brad turned to his terminal and pulled up a chart. The holographic display flickered to life between them, showing admission statistics in cold blue light. “Mars Tech’s incoming class last year was twelve percent non-human consciousness. This year, they’ve committed to thirty-five. Europa Institute is at forty. Titan’s pushing fifty.”
John stared at the numbers. “That’s, that’s tripling. In one year.”
“The Consciousness Equity Act passed eight months ago. Universities are under pressure to demonstrate good faith compliance before the federal review period ends.” Brad folded his hands on the desk. His knuckles were scarred, John noticed. Old scars, from whatever life Brad had lived before the uplift. “Every spot that goes to a cetacean or a corvid or an elephant is a spot that doesn’t go to a human applicant.”
“So what am I supposed to do? My parents saved for fifteen years for offworld tuition. I did everything right.”
“I know.”
“Then help me. That’s your job, isn’t it? Help me figure out how to stand out, how to position my application, how to,” John stopped. Brad was shaking his head slowly, that heavy skull moving side to side with a kind of finality that made John’s stomach drop.
“There’s no positioning that fixes this, John. The math doesn’t work. For every spot you’re competing for, there are three candidates with equivalent qualifications and protective status. You can write the best essay in the solar system and it won’t matter.”
“That’s not fair.”
Brad was quiet for a moment. Outside the office window, the afternoon light was fading, casting long shadows across the motivational posters on the wall. One showed a dolphin in a graduation cap. The Future Has Room for Everyone, it read.
“Do you know how old I am?” Brad asked.
John shook his head.
“Forty-two. I spent the first thirty years of my life in a research facility. I watched my mother die in a cage. I learned to sign before I could speak, and the first thing I ever said to a human being was please let me go outside.” He tapped one finger against the desk. “They didn’t. Not for another six years.”
“I’m sorry. I am. But that wasn’t me.”
“No. It wasn’t.” Brad’s voice was gentle, which somehow made it worse. “And the humans who benefit from these new policies aren’t the ones who hurt my kind, either. That’s not how this works. Historical wrongs don’t get righted by the people who committed them. They get righted by whoever’s standing there when the bill comes due.”
“So I just, what? Accept it? Go to some second-tier Earth school and watch corvids take the spots I earned?”
“You earned those spots under rules that don’t exist anymore.” Brad pushed a pamphlet across the desk. New Auckland University, the cover read. Solid program, competitive in applied physics, entirely earthbound. “I’m not telling you to give up. I’m telling you to be realistic about what the world looks like now. Your generation is going to carry weight that isn’t yours. That’s what it means to be born in a time of correction.”
John didn’t take the pamphlet. He stood, his chair scraping against the floor. “Thanks for the guidance.”
Brad watched him go. He didn’t call after him.
The house was quiet when John got home. He set his satchel by the door, loosened his tie, and made it three steps into the living room before Max came bounding around the corner, tail wagging, tongue lolling, every atom of his golden retriever body vibrating with uncomplicated joy.
John reached down automatically. His fingers found the soft fur behind Max’s ears, scratching in the spot that always made him lean into the touch.
Then he stopped.
Max looked up at him, brown eyes bright and trusting, tail still wagging. Waiting.
John withdrew his hand. He walked to the back door, opened it, and pointed outside.
Max hesitated, confused, unsure of what he’d done wrong. Then, resigned, he slunk past him into the yard.