Intended Extinction by Greg Hanks

ran his gloved hand on the sleek “life-giver” and smiled to his partner. He pressed a few more things on a touchpad, and the crisp voice of a man erupted.
    “Welcome and behold. You are now a proud user of Vax. Can you feel the power? If you are new to this machine, step up to the touch screen and tap your ID card. Then press the orange button below and you will be verified to acquire Vax. Vax will need to be administered every week, for optimal results. To collect your own vial of Vax, simply touch the glyph on the side of the dispenser and it will slide out of the tube below. We at GenoTec hope that this is the beginning of a new age. A new age of cure.”
    The angelic voice reverberated, and smiles spread all across the room. This was without doubt, the greatest moment in Edge history. Perhaps in any history.
    A rush of people formed a line. The process went surprisingly quick; the dispenser spit out vials like a vending machine. We decided to wait for everyone to finish before we collected. We had no clue how long it was actually going to take us. It could turn into one of those “how many people does it take to change a light bulb” things.
    “What kind of info do you think we’re collecting?” Tara asked, folding her arms.
    I thought about it for a moment. I watched the next person carefully, and realized they hardly touched anything. Just two times—one for the ID and then the orange button. What information could we extract from that ?
    “Maybe . . . it’s the number of people who come here each week? I know it sounds simple, but who knows.”
    “No, that sounds right,” she said. “Maybe my view of this task was a little too high.”
    “Don’t worry,” I smirked, “you’ll still get that trophy.”
    After we finished collecting the quota for the Turnmont, which took over four times to figure out, we decided to get some lunch at the next location, Brankas. It was one of the few authentic restaurants left. Even with GenoTec fulfilling our needs, this wasn’t exactly buffet town.
    In fact, to maintain order and equality, GenoTec had come up with a detailed system—an economy of their own, you could say. A ten-digit ID number had been issued out to all of the survivors wanting to cooperate with GenoTec. That ID number was imprinted onto a small card, like the ones we used to use as credit cards. Once you had your number, you could be allowed or denied access to food, shelter, entertainment, and now Vax. With the current rate of goods being produced, a free-for-all was out of the question.
    If you decided to go against that principle, you would find yourself living alone. If it came to violence—a lot of these cases did—they wouldn’t think twice about silencing you. Our world needs builders, not hoarders.
    There had to be limits. Once you had your apartment secured, you couldn’t just go out and claim another. Those wanting more could find run down pieces of filth located in the Rift or the Dustlsum—the abandoned places of New York and its surroundings. You couldn’t acquire more food than was allowed each month. We were tallied meticulously for every item. About the only thing we weren’t tabbed on were the scrap shops—the pawn dens.
    Nevertheless, this was how it had to be. It was either every man for himself—anarchy—or let GenoTec step in and manage things. I was extremely grateful, but I had this feeling that one day I’d have to own up and pay my dues. It also didn’t help that people would have a hard time once things started getting back to normal. We had become extremely reliant.
    On our way to Brankas, we were helpless to the bombardment of Vax propaganda. It was on every television station and every page of the Internet. It was painted across the town in massive sheets hanging from skyscrapers, banners fitted with pictures of Slate, and jubilant crowds.
    “Look!” said a scruffy man, approaching us. He lifted his shirt to show us his flabby stomach, healing from a recent