Tilly was waiting for me on Monday after breakfast. She was dressed in shirt and pants and sat on her bed with her white tennis shoes on the floor. We were into my fourth week since arriving at the safe house, and routine was starting to become habit for me. Though it was only Tilly's second trip to the greenhouse, she already knew the procedures as well as I did, if not better. Sasha met us upstairs with a bundle of sealed plastic bags containing work clothes for the greenhouse, about ten sets. "I replace them weekly," she explained. "It's your turn to stock them today. Give the bags of clothes a spray of herbicide while you are in the shower, dry them off and unpack them inside."
We went through the same routine of scrubbing clean that I had grown familiar with over the last few weeks, bringing the clothing along when I took my shower. I went through first this time and waited for Tilly just inside the greenhouse so that she could change in private.
"What are we doing today?" Tilly asked. She reached for a pair of work gloves.
"We," I said, drawing the word out as I gestured to several large plastic sacks near the entrance, "are spreading fertilizer today."
Tilly wrinkled her nose as she put on her gloves.
"Don't worry, it doesn't smell as bad as you'd think," I assured her. Inwardly, I was encouraged. It was the first time I had seen Tilly express something as common and natural as distaste.
We dragged one of the bags over into the walkway and opened it. As I had promised, the smell was more earthy than foul. We fetched shovels and Tilly followed my lead in spreading it over the soil. "I have a question I want to ask you," I said.
Tilly drew a deep breath. "Okay."
"What does your name mean? I mean, what does it stand for?"
She stopped and looked at me. I kept spreading fertilizer, as if the answer didn't concern me all that much.
"Utility." She finished the shovel she had started and went for another.
Now I stopped, propping myself on my empty shovel. "Utilities? Like electricity? Water? I don't get it."
I resumed the work when she didn't answer at first, and my mind went to my education. Economists used the term as a concept for how much something was valued. And it was a central concept in a certain school of normative ethics. "Like utilitarianism?" I asked. "The greatest good for the most people?"
She shrugged, appeared to consider for a few moments, then nodded.
I thought about it some more, but had to admit that I was at a loss. "I still don't get it. Which generation are you from?"
"My model..." Tilly hesitated. "My model is fourth generation."
I knew that each generation of genemod roughly coincided with each decade from the 1960s on. Some people identified a zero generation from the late 1950s, at the dawn of modern genetic engineering. It was in the first generation, however, that a standard set of genetic enhancements like telomer regeneration, and mental health and immune system enhancements emerged to compliment the more distinctive modifications that made up a designer gene model. First gens were generally limited to minor physical changes such as Wendy's developmental block, and only a few models existed. Second gen models greatly expanded the possibilities, but were generally focused on enhancing physical features like strength and beauty. A lot could be done to improve physical and mental development just by throwing out the bad genes that drag everyone down in one way or another, and this kind of cleanup was standard for second gen onwards.
In third generation models, more exotic enhancements and body changes became possible. Nissi's physiology, while nominally human, showed enough divergence to possibly classify her as a new subspecies. The fourth generation forged new territory in beginning to alter the mind in ways not conceived of before. There had only been a few fourth-generation models. The Human Genome Protection Act of 1993 had outlawed genemodding in humans.
"Sharon," I said softly in remembrance, swallowing down the lump that tried to form in my throat.
"What did you say?" Tilly asked.
"Oh, sorry, nothing. Be careful not to smother those seedlings."
In her distraction, Tilly had dropped a large clump of fertilizer on top of a tiny pea plant. I reached over to brush it back so that the plant's leaves were again exposed to the light. As I did, I refocused on the task at hand. Tilly was fourth generation and her model had something to do with utilitarian ethics. "Care to tell me any more about yourself?" I asked.
"Norm, I want to know what made you sad just now."
I looked up at her, feigning ignorance. "Sad? I don't know what you mean."
Tilly's jaw clenched in sudden anger. "Fine. I should have known better than to trust you." She dropped the shovel and walked back toward the entry doors.
"What the hell was that?" I asked, more to myself than to Tilly. I moved to follow her. She was already at the inner door when I caught hold of her arm.
"No, get off me!" she screamed, and pushed me back with enough force to throw me against the door. The air whooshed out of my lungs and I struggled to take a breath. I sank to my knees. My heart was racing as my mind knew for just that moment that I was going to die. Tilly, halfway through the door, turned and looked back. Anger and betrayal were written plainly on her face, as clear as the face of a child. I collapsed the rest of the way and felt cold concrete against my forehead. My stunned diaphragm finally stopped spasming and I gulped greedily at the air.
"Are you okay?" I looked up to see Tilly standing over me. Tears shimmered in her eyes. "I'm so sorry, Norm."
"I'm fine," I said, suddenly wary of the power in that petite body. "You just knocked the wind out of me."
Relief washed over her face. She held her hand out and I hesitated before finally taking it. Once I felt steady on my feet, I began to brush the dust off.
Tilly touched her cheek and looked surprised at the wetness there. "When you grabbed me, I got scared," she said. Now it was horror that she exuded. She put her hands to her head and shook it from side to side. "Oh, no, no, no. I can't think that."
She began to sob and I found myself gathering her into my arms. My shoulder twinged where I had hit the wall but I ignored it. She let me hold her for a minute or so, but her crying quickly faded to a few weak sobs. It was she who disengaged from me, stepping back and turning away as though ashamed.
"Come on," I said. "It's okay now. Let's put the tools away and come back tomorrow."
As we tidied the greenhouse, my nerves began to calm. It was easy to forget the strength that some genemods possessed. I was beginning to feel certain that Tilly hadn't thrown me back on purpose. She had been angry when she started to leave, but it had changed instantly to terror when I grabbed her arm.
Once we were back in the house, I took Wendy aside. I brought her halfway up the stairwell, along with my copy of the DSM. "Listen, I'm not a real psychologist, but I'd like to keep some semblance of confidentiality. On the other hand, I don't feel qualified to diagnose and treat Tilly on my own. Can I trust you to keep what I tell you just between us?"
"Absolutely," she said. "You know I have her best interest at heart."
