Of course, not all Gens received the same allotment of resources or access to them. From the beginning, the amount was supposed to be determined by a Gen’s size and particular requirements. However, it was well known that priority and special consideration were given to Gens whose work the state deemed the most valuable, or whose leaders were savvy enough to curry favor with the right state officials. Better and bigger food allotments, finer clothing, and larger estates were all common rewards for Gens who excelled at playing the political game.

The system grew to become what it is now: the great engine at the heart of the Crachian machine. Once the Franchise Council approved a proposed Gen to attend to one of the state’s vital needs, that Gen could then form to oversee that vital need. There is a Gen behind every facet, service, and trade in Crache, from maintaining city sewers and sweeping streets to milling flour and farming rice to forging weapons and capturing stray animals. Their labors guarantee each member of a Gen a place in society and all their needs sponsored by the nation itself.

That was, as Brio used to put it, the gleaming side of the coin, anyway. Like any system composed of and controlled by people, Gens were susceptible to corruption and greed. There were always rumors of graft and favoritism, contracts being taken away or passed to Gens who showed the Council favor, larger Gens absorbing weaker or rival ones to eliminate competition, or any number of other unsavory practices no one spoke of in polite company. The ultimate irony, however, is that the Gen system was created to replace and prevent inherited wealth and power, at least by arbitrary bloodlines. Yet Gens that solidified their control over a city trust are rarely supplanted or replaced, and the formation of new Gens has become equally rare.

In many ways, Brio had often mused ruefully, Gens became the thing they sought so hard to kill.

For all those reasons, Lexi knew enough not to trust wholly to the goodness in these people or the fabled fairness of their process, however well-meaning some of them seemed.

“De-Gens,” Lexi greets the male Councilmembers, and then, to Councilwoman Burr, “Te-Gen.”

“It’s good to see you again, Lexi,” Stru says, each word seeming to be dragged over burning sand as it exits his mouth. “I do so wish the circumstances had changed.”

Lexi nods, tightly. “As do I.”

Stru sighs. It’s an ugly, sickly wheezing that causes Lexi to feel pity for the decrepit old man even as the irritation she felt in the corridor outside refuses to fade.

“I have nothing well to deliver to you today, Lexi,” he finally pronounces. “Nothing. And for that I am truly sorry.”