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"We just want to know we'll have grandchildren. You understand."
"Of course, Mrs. Morrow. Who doesn't want to spoil little grandbabies?" The doctor smiles, then returns to business. "Unfortunately, that's not something we can guarantee. We can try, of course, but the science just isn't there yet. It's hard to pinpoint where two people are linked, especially when it can happen before one of the two is even conceived."
"So what are you saying?" Mr. Morrow frowns. "What are the chances?"
"I'd put them at about 60%, and that's being generous. Of course, the rest of your preferences for your son do fall under our guarantee of 95% or higher chances of success."
Mrs. Morrow purses her lips. "I see."
"But—" Mr. Morrow splutters. "But that's barely more than half!"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Morrow." The doctor turns to him and smiles sympathetically. "As I said, the science isn’t quite there yet. But it is a significantly higher chance than he would have if we leave it up to God."
—
They don't find out until he's born. There on his arm, in tiny letters that will grow with him, is the name Vincent. Jerome's mother sighs but cradles her otherwise perfect son to her own heart.
They pay off the medical staff to keep it quiet. It isn’t so big a deal these days, with babies mostly grown in labs, but they want no one to suspect their son is anything less than perfect―anything other than the way they wanted him to be.
When her friends get nosy and ask what Jerome’s Name is, his mother says, "Vinetta! Isn't that such a lovely name?"
His father laughs away the question with a joke: "If I tell you, you'll just name your daughter the same!"
When he goes for swimming, his parents worry until they remember swimmers are allowed to cover their Names. Even then, his mother anxiously checks Jerome's wrist before and after every race.
—
Vincent accompanies his parents to the clinic when he is young. His parents had told him they’re planning to get him a younger brother (his father wants another boy). He isn’t sure about it, but they both seem happy about the idea, so he’s sure he’ll love his brother too, once he gets to meet him.
The nurse gives Vincent toys to keep his attention while the doctor talks to his parents. He likes to play, but he likes to listen, too. He doesn’t understand everything they say, but he does hear his mother ask about the Name his brother will get, if he’ll get a wife. His father keeps asking to be sure of all kinds of things, like that the baby won’t be sick with this or that—heart problems, astigmatism, asthma, many things Vincent recognizes and some he doesn’t. He recognizes them because he knows he is sick with most of these things.
Later, when his mother is tucking him into bed, Vincent pipes up. “Is Dad trying to fix what’s wrong with me?”
She pauses, gripping the covers more tightly. “What do you mean? There’s nothing wrong with you, Vincent.”
“He kept telling the doctor to make sure my brother doesn’t have what I have. And you asked about the Name he’ll get. So you’re trying to fix what’s wrong with me.”
Her lips quiver and her eyes water, and she carefully finishes tucking him in before answering. “No, Vincent. We love you just the way you are. Your father… we both thought that we could give your brother a little help, that’s all.”
He mulls that over for a minute. “But why didn’t you give me help?”
“We did! A little bit.” She sighs and cups his face. “I was worried what it would mean to get too involved. That you might not be mine if the doctors gave you too much help.”
He frowns. “But–”
“But now I understand that getting some help isn’t a bad thing. Your father and I help you all the time, don’t we? And you help us sometimes, like when you clean up your toys so we don’t have to. And that’s a good thing. We just want to help your brother as much as we can.”
“By making him not like me.”
“Vincent,” she says firmly. “I wish we had helped you more before you were born. So you wouldn’t have to worry about being sick. So you could breathe more easily, see better, all kinds of things that you’ll have to live with your whole life. But I know you can do it. You’re so strong and smart, and we’ll help you as much as we can. We love you.”
Eventually the lines in his forehead clear and he nods. She smiles and kisses his forehead before saying goodnight.
Vincent falls asleep that night thinking about all the ways he can be better than they expect him to be.
—
Second place isn’t enough for everything they’ve given him. Jerome knows this as deeply as he knows they would never say that to him. But his genes are practically perfect, he’s put in the time and effort required to win, he’s got everything going for him, and yet—
He knows it’s not just the races. He sees the way his mother looks at his wrist, how his father avoids talking about Names around him at all. Sometimes he hopes Vincent won’t care about all that he should be, that Jerome will be just right no matter what. Sometimes he hopes he never meets Vincent at all, if even Jerome can’t live up to his potential, because then neither of them will be disappointed.
Second isn’t fucking good enough.
—
In the end, Vincent finds his own way without anyone’s help at all. He scrubs the floors at Gattaca and keeps to himself, reads the books and studies for tests without any partner. He doesn’t need anyone’s help with this, he can do it all on his own just fine. He’s sure his mother feels better without the burden of having to worry after him, that his father can pretend he only has the one (perfect) son, that Anton can make a name for himself without looking down on Vincent the whole way up. And Jerome, whoever he is, can find someone else to love who isn’t living one foot in the grave and the other in outer space. It’s better this way.
This way, he doesn’t have to prove anything to anyone but himself.
—
“I found a good match,” German tells him. “His name is Vincent, and he’s got a hell of a lifeline to outrun.”
German goes on about what makes this such a good match, but the blood is rushing in Jerome’s ears so loudly he can’t hear it. “What did you say his name was?”