Fear seeped from the Humans aura, a steady trickle that had so far remained relatively constant. The Thing tasted it, breathing it into every pore of it’s hideous, deformed body. It liked the taste, but still wasn’t sure it was Right. There was something off about it, something that the Thing could not quite place. An undercurrent of bitterness that existed on the very edge of the sweet, complex notes that made up the bleed-off of emotions. Feeding had been becoming increasingly difficult of late, with ever longer periods between hibernations as the Thing slowly matured over the decades that passed. It wasn’t too far off now, just a few more cycles before it reached full maturity. Then it wouldn’t have to hide in the shadows, then it could leave this crippled form and achieve it’s true potential - to take on a Human host, to carry on it’s immortal existence in one of those beautiful meat-suits, to take part in all the depravities afforded by the Human condition, released from the requirement to sleep for so long after a period of Feasting. The last few cycles had seen so much change - not like before, in the Early Time. Now, every time it awoke from it’s slumber it was like awakening into a completely different world. The wilderness of old had been almost entirely replaced by monstrous jungles of concrete, metal and glass - and the Humans! There were so many of them, they were everywhere, stacked upon each other in a literal sense, living in fortified towers of shining surfaces and lights so bright that they caused the Thing much pain if it entered into their influence.
At first the Thing had been excited and for a time the abundance of prey had sent the Thing into a feeding frenzy. It gorged itself fat on their essence and flesh, grew complacent. Then one day after a particularly long sleep it had awakened into one of those concrete jungles. When it had tried to feed on the first Human it found, the unthinkable had happened. The Human fought back, as they are sometimes able to do, but this time it HURT the Thing and the prey had got away. The Thing was forced to retreat back to it’s lair, to nurse the wounds made by the weapon that called upon thunder and fire to rend it’s very flesh. That cycle had been the first time that the Thing had tasted it’s own fear, a bitter acrid taste that caused it to convulse in pain as it found itself in a near-fatal feedback loop as it uncontrollably drank in it’s own fear and through it it’s very essence. It was only through a supreme force of will that the Thing was able to break out of this act of auto-cannibalism. As it lay there, weak, vulnerable and on the verge of actual death it feared that this cycle would be it’s last, that it would never fulfil the ultimate goal. If it wasn’t for the vagabond that stumbled into the Thing’s lair looking for shelter then it could very well have been the end, but the resultant feast had brought the Thing back from the brink and from then on it had grown cunning and changed the parameters of the Hunt. Now the Thing stalked it’s prey, taking it’s time, maintaining a total awareness of it’s surroundings at all times and only striking when it was sure of the Humans capabilities, when the prey was isolated from the chance of help.
This was such a time. The Thing had stalked it’s prey for many hours, keeping to the shadows, learning the hunting ground. It could feel the time approaching, the time that it would strike. Yes, that time was near. In fact, that time was now.
As the prey took one last turn further into the concrete maze the Thing could sense the isolation. The prey had led the Thing far away from all the other countless souls whose concentration shone out bright to it’s senses, a banquet of forbidden fruit almost tempting enough to risk it’s end. As the Thing slid around the corner, it’s presence an inky blackness, a living shadow, it saw the prey standing still in the middle of the alley with it’s back turned. The Thing took another taste, inhaling the sweet, sweet aroma of fear and took another step. Suddenly it sensed something was wrong - the prey was not responding like all the other countless souls it had fed upon. The fear was not increasing. These Humans always had an unconscious response to it’s presence, they somehow sensed when the Thing was near and the resultant increase in fear and dread was exquisite. This Human however did not - in fact, the Thing realised that the opposite was happening, the fear had gone, snuffed out like the light of a candle flame in a sudden breeze. Only a few paces away now, the Thing stopped, an unwelcome feeling of uncertainty freezing it in place. What was happening? It had never encountered a thing such as this before. The sudden urge to flee shot through it’s muscles and flesh like a bolt of lightening and it let out a low, guttural growl, breaking any existing illusion of stealth. Before it could turn away to escape the taste of fear came back, this time strong and almost overwhelming. But… It tasted different, still enticing but… Intentional, it was almost as if the Human was able to control the bleed-off of emotions, as if the Human had led the Thing here. Realisation dawned on the Thing. Right here in this alleyway, the tables had been turned. It was no longer the hunter. The Human was the hunter and it was the prey.
A slow, sharp scraping sound came from where the Human stood and long, wicked looking blades slid out of the sleeves of it’s long trench coat. The blades were black, as dark as the blood that ran through the veins of the creature itself, what little light afforded by the moon overhead glinting off the silver runes inscribed into their lethal length.
Slowly, the Human turned, arms held slightly out from it’s sides, the wicked blades held in a casual grip that spoke of a confidence and proficiency that the Thing had never before encountered in prey. The Human carefully and deliberately raised it’s head, piercing eyes locking with the Things own. The fear had once again gone, it’s departure leaving an unfeeling void that further unnerved the Thing. The corner of the Humans mouth turned up in a wicked grin that almost equalled the promised lethality of the blades which it held.
“It’s time,” the Human said, the calmness in it’s voice sending a tremor down the twisted spine of the Thing. Raising the blades straight out from it’s sides, the Human leapt.
“Hi! Er, is my audio working? Hello?”
“Hi, yeah, I can hear you, can you hear me?”
“Sorry, damn thing, hold on... just a second, I’ve got this...”
“I can hear you fine, I think it’s working-“
“Er, just a sec, let me... there! Can you hear me?”
“Hello! Yes, I could hear you the whole time, I-“
“No, still not working, you must think I look like a right idiot, flapping away like a mime! Not that you can hear me, I could be saying anything right now, making a right bloody fool of myself, blah blah blah what a tit bollocks this shitty computer...”
“Yeah, I can, like, hear everything you’re saying, really, maybe if I do the whole jazz hands like this? No? You have no idea. Fuck me, this is... wow 10/10 would CoronaDate again, Jesus Christ-“
“Oh! Hi! Sorry, what was that? Oops! I just had the volume turned down! Please don’t say you could hear me this whole time!?”
“Hey! Woohoo, finally - no, couldn’t hear a word, can now - wow, what a beautiful voice you have, you-“
“Ha ha! Thank god, for a second there I- oh sorry I just spoke-“
“Er, never mind, I was on-“
“-over you, sorry, you go first, what were you saying?”
“Um, no, it’s fine, I was just saying I love your voice, it’s nice to put a voice to your messages, it’s refreshing to not just hear myself reading them in my head - it’s music to my ears”
“Aw! That’s so sweet! Isn’t it weird doing this over video? I mean, is this what it was like in the olden times when you had to write letters to each other?!”
“Um, no...? I think that was a bit different...”
“Yeah, I guess, I mean, we didn’t have to wait for a reply, yeah?! How mad would that be, having to actually write? Haha! Don’t know what I’d do without predictive text haha!”
“Yeah, must’ve been pretty crazy back then, no Tinder or whatever.”
“Tinder? God! That rot! That’s like a cattle market for humans, misogynistic bag of shi- er, vile piece of software.”
“Haha, ha, yeah, it’s pretty stereotypical of society right now, you’d never find me putting myself on display like that...”
“Yeah, you seem like a pretty sweet and sensible guy, that’s one of the things that I liked about your profile, I loved that you included a link to your blog, gives a real insight into you as a person.”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I thought - I mean, yeah, I like to think I present a pretty genuine view of myself, what you see is what you get, and all that - not to say that there isn’t more to me than what you see, I’m pretty complex you be honest, but er, yeah I can relate to people you know? Like to think I’m ‘true’”
“Aw, yeah, that’s what I value most about a person, like, how true they are to themselves, I think it really reflects on how they see others. I don’t want to have anything to do with people who aren’t true to themselves, you know? If you can’t be true to yourself, then how can you be true to those around you? I mean, you don’t ‘know’ someone, anyone, until you know them, yeah? And if they don’t know themselves, then how can they know anyone else who isn’t them? I mean, yeah, sorry, I’m rambling, I haven’t done this before - can you believe this is my first time remote dating? Crazy! Right?”
“Yeah, same, is pretty nuts. Weird meeting someone on purpose, completely sober, is like a whole new world...”
“Hahahahaha, yeah, er, ‘sober’, sure, totally, I get what you mean - no ice-breakers, hey?”
“Haha, no, just us, as we are, ‘true’...”
“Yeah, so... Um, what you been up to? In this whole period, I mean, er, you been working? Furloughed?”
“Um, no, I’ve been pretty full-on to be honest, no rest for the wicked, as they say! You?”
“Totally, yeah, I’ve been mad busy... I mean, um, yeah pretty hectic at work, I’m pretty important... lots of people needing me, needing help and all that, pretty crazy...”
“So... yeah, I guess you must be looking forward to actually seeing someone, in the flesh, like, to feel actual human contact....?”
“Um, yeah? I guess, like, sure thing, that personal contact is pretty important, sure but, er, I actually quite like this ‘new normal’, I mean - like there’s so many things and ways that we can express ourselves, isn’t it great that we can meet someone without all the baggage of ‘knowing’ and pre-conceived conceptions, kind of like a blank slate of mediation, we are who we are and you can be who you are... “
“Sure, that’s pretty cool, I love the discovery, finding out who someone is, it’s kind of like an adventure, a more meaningful connection than just hooking up in a bar, like... hello? I think you’ve frozen? Er, hi”
“Shit, it’s gone again. Fucksake. Bloody thing. Jesus Christ what’s the point.”
Hamish pushed off against the bulkhead, the gentle pressure starting him along a leisurely trajectory down the length of the ships spinal corridor. Some 50 metres ahead of him was the hatch leading to the command module, open as he had left it. Judging the relative distances of the surrounding walls he surmised that the launch was a good one, straight and true. Reaching his arms out either side of him and tilting his chin ‘up’ he closed his eyes. Picturing himself flying along the corridor in a parody of an ascension into the Rapture made him smile. He felt like an Angel, drifting through the air in complete defiance of gravity. The harsh white strip lights that lit the way at regular intervals along the corridor played across his eye lids, the rhythmic flashing almost hypnotic. Counting down from 30 he took slow, deep breaths, keeping his body as still as he could. The slightest shift in his centre of mass could spoil his flight, knocking him out of the perfect equilibrium of zero gravity that ran along the ships axis of rotation and into the mild tug of the artificial gravity of the outer hull. If that happened then his perfect run of 17 days straight would be ruined and he was only two days off of his record. Fail to beat that and the bottle of 60 year-old Scotch would have to wait yet another 19 days to be uncorked. Reaching the five-count, he tucked his knees up into his body and brought his arms around in an arc, initiating a 180 degree spin which, if timed correctly, would complete just as his body aligned itself with the main acceleration couch.
“Three, two, one - nailed it,” he said aloud as he opened his eyes and reached out his hands at the same time to grasp the arms of the chair. “And the crowd goes wild!”, he shouted, letting out a whoop of triumph, “Yet ANOTHER perfect run for McBride! Just two more and the dram is his!”
Settling down into the gel-filled chair at the command console he let out a long sigh. The weak 0.5 G tugged lightly at his body, feeling strange but welcome after his victory flight down the corridor. Flicking a few switches to activate the forward facing observation screens he looked up and out into - nothing. The total black of space as seen from out of atmosphere was surprisingly different from what most people were used to. The inky blackness so deep that it was almost a tangible thing - not so much an absence of light than the antithesis of it, contrasting with the bright pinpricks of stars that looked almost fake without the twinkling of their meagre light refracting through the air.
The only thing that broke up the stochastic repetition of the stars against the veil of the space between was the ever-present lantern that was Jupiter, just off-centre of the forward display. Orbiting around it was his destination, Ganymede, the gas giant’s seventh satellite. Galilei IV was his final stop, the science station that orbited the large moon, and also where he would offload the 800 tonnes of assorted goods and equipment in his current haul. Once that was done, the Artemis Fowl would then be loaded back up with a near equal mass of precious metals mined from the surface of the moon for his return trip back to Earth. Total turnaround time was projected to be in the region of 16 days, but lacking anything even remotely approaching real-time communication at such distances, logistic updates were few and far between. From previous experience this was unlikely to be the case and even with precise arrival times whose calculations were far too complex for Hamish’s puny biological mind to even understand, it was probable that the folks of G-4 would not have the shipment ready on-time. Hamish didn’t mind, though, a bit of extended shore-leave would be very welcome. He’d heard that the hydroponic installations on the surface of the moon were now producing an interesting and exotic array of new plant phenotypes, which the burgeoning colonies inhabitants were turning into mouth-watering dishes and delicacies that made the best chefs back home salivate in envy. Mind you, right now camp-fire roasted road-kill would make Hamish trade a toe for over what was on offer on the Artemis Fowl.
It was probably a good thing, though, he grudgingly could see some sense in the Spongiform Fungal Archetype Twelve (S-FAT for short) that had found its way into being the main-stay of long-haul interplanetary travel. Not needing any form of sunlight, being able to be grown in complete darkness and engineered to filter and absorb nutrients from ships waste and air, it was the perfect accompaniment to space travel. Pretty much everything that was produced by humans in the deep of space, S-FAT ate it up. It was ideal for long trips such as the Earth-Jupiter run and excelled when scaled up to the larger-crewed colony frigates and science vessels bound for the outer planets. It wasn’t just the general ship-board utility of the fungus that made sense, though, it could be completely dehydrated and compressed into one-tenth volume, meaning that vast amounts of excess product could be packaged up and stored, providing a pretty much limitless supply of food, a ready-to-eat all-in-one nutritional package - all that was required was the addition of a small amount of water. Or piss. It’s utility was so great that even when harvested and dehydrated, the introduction of any water-based fluid would rehydrate it into all it’s sponge-like glory and the newly re-activated bacteria would break down the waste and re-purpose it into all manner of salts and minerals. This, however, was a bit of a hard-swallow (literally). It still tasted like solid piss. Despite it’s flavour-challenged nature, though, there was a budding community of entrepreneurs who made it their mission to create an entire cuisine around S-FAT and it’s cousins. A not insignificant portion of Hamish’s personal mass-allowance was taken up by a wide variety of spices and freeze-dried vegetables, but despite his best efforts everything he tried had only muted the blandness of the thing. Only the addition of some of his prized Scotch in place of water (he saved the piss for purely cultivation, not re-hydration) had some semblance of success in increasing the palatability of the thing. However, that liquid gold was more precious to him than clean air and the feel of solid ground beneath his feet. He shuddered at the idea of a return trip sans-Whisky, space-craziness was a very real thing, especially when travelling such vast distances alone, as he was prone to.
He wondered what space-travel would actually be like if you could eat like ‘normal’. He’d never gone on one of the cruises for the ultra-rich - and never would, on his pay. On those, they ate like kings - steak, potatoes, fresh fruit and vegetables, exotic fish - ice cream! Everything you could ask for, they had. Not grunts like him, though, no, he had to make do with piss-cultivated, lab-grown mushroom-wannabe cubes that looked like brains and tasted of vacuum-sealant. He’d kill for a steak. He knew men that had. Still, ‘least he didn’t have to worry about getting fat. Proper exercise was difficult without full gravity - especially the weak-assed stuff that was generated by the measly rotation of the Artemis Fowl’s outer ring. Bare minimum, that’s all that he was afforded. Some bloody accountant back on Earth had crunched the numbers and maximised profit margins by minimising expenditure on operating costs. Just enough G to mitigate muscle and bone atrophy for long-haul flights. Of course, they didn’t understand that a lot of the time in transit would be spent away from the pathetic tug of the outer ring, so even that wouldn’t be enough. The period of re-acclimatisation to standard G back on Earth was always a killer, he had to spend most of his down-time hitting the gym to build his strength back up before being shipped out on the next supply run. Was damn hard to keep the weight off when back planet-side, and all too easy to blow much of his pay on fancy meals. Some of the guys didn’t bother, though, instead they kept up the S-FAT diet. The way they saw it, the temptation wasn’t worth it. You didn’t miss it if you didn’t ever have it. Not Hamish, though. He did kind of enjoy these long stints away, time to be with himself, reflect on life, get away from the massive overpopulation that was the cities of Earth. Didn’t mean he didn’t grab life by the balls with both hands the first opportunity he got when back down the well, though.
Looking back down at the communications console, he made a few final edits to the update log he’d compiled while down in engineering, corrected a few transposition errors, confirmed course projections were still accurate and fired off the daily report back the main office in Paris. Confirming the communique was on it’s way, he once again flicked the forward displays to ‘off’ and pushed away from the acceleration couch, floating back up in the null-G. Kicking out with his legs he drifted towards the access hatch leading back into the main ship, the faint rumble of his stomach shockingly loud in the near-dead silence of the cabin. Time to visit the galley for another serving of fungal joy. Maybe he should break open the Scotch, to hell with his stupid rules - a couple of measures to re-hydrate and the last of his sea salt and paprika? Why not? A life without treats is a life without joy, and if there was one thing that Hamish prized above all else, it was those moments of joy. And whisky. Oh yes.
Dust on the wind, A horizon obscured,
A shift of light, Stretching into the void,
Forever to turn, I await your embrace,
The fire you burn, It bleeds into space,
Primary I am, But also unseen,
Ripe and juicy, And something obscene,
Many things I can be, And one out of three,
The rage that you feel? That’s me, you see,
The life I give, Can be drained away,
A drop, a spatter, A line, a spray,
Of all the colours, I am the best,
I embody the life, That beats in your chest.
To obsess is to play a dangerous game. That’s what I don’t get about her, she’s seems to smart and down-to-earth. I’d say her sensibleness is second only to her beauty. That’s another thing, I don’t get why she’s so “in to” me. I mean, I’m fairly normal - as far as “normal” goes, don’t think I’m particularly attractive. Personally I’d call myself “unassuming”.
But she does seem to notice me all the time, wherever I am. Like just today, she noticed me in the coffee shop. She noticed me on the street outside afterwards, and then again in the department store. She even noticed me on the subway, and this time I made sure I was a good car-length away. I’d even worn a different hat. Still, she saw me, and gave me that “look”. It’s so exciting! Makes me tingle all over, gets my heart beating like it’s dancing a quick step. At least she hasn’t yet noticed that I’ve moved into the apartment block across the street, which is good as our windows are literally opposite each other on the same level. Hope it lasts, gives me some privacy, finally! If I make sure the living room light is off and I stay quite still while I watch her, maybe it will last?
It never has, though. Sometimes it gets so bad I have to move, again. Last time, though, it did get pretty intense. This one might be different, who knows? Maybe it’ll calm down, maybe her obsession with me will pass, and I’ll be able to again watch without her noticing. I hope so. Last time I had to make it stop. I’d rather not move city again, though, I quite like it here.
There it is again. The ‘look’, the slight shift in posture.
“Hey! I can see you, you know, what the hell is your problem?!”
I don’t say it, at least not out loud, but I can feel my eyes shouting. He looks away, turning back to his meal, leaning in closer to his dining companion. I’m too far away to hear, but I know they’re talking about me. Though I don’t know WHY. It’s been happening all day. All fricking day! I’m sick of it, it’s like I’ve grown a second head! Stopping at the next shop window, I turn to face it, pretending to study the array of shoes on display. Nope. No second head. No third eye. Not even so much as a drop of bird shit on my shoulder. Shifting my gaze off my (admittedly ravishing) self, I scan the scene behind me. I don’t know these people. Well, not all, not most. There are of course some familiar faces. Those are the ones that pain me the most. If I know them, even in passing, then they surely know me. Just talk to me for Gods sake! But no one does, it’s like there’s a bubble around me, if I start to approach they move away. Again, why? Maybe I should try the couple at the table. I don’t know them, and surely they’re not going to get up and leave their meal just because I’m getting closer? Jesus, I actually am, I AM getting closer, my feet seemingly working on their own. Left, right, left, right.
She notices me. Not him, the one who glared at me before, but his companion. She’s places her hand on his arm, whispers something and I can see him tense. He doesn’t turn, but raises his hand to snag a passing waiter. Oh, looks like they might be done after all, he’s getting the bill. With an effort I arrest my progress, stopping directly across the street from the alfresco diners, pretending I actually was interested in the bright yellow jacket proudly on display.
I take a breath, deep. I don’t know what to do. I have to talk to someone, I haven’t said a word to another all day, not after last night. What the hell did happen last night? It’s so blurry, vague flashes behind my eyes. I get a sense I know, but it’s always just out of reach. Should probably meditate, get away for a bit and forget all these idiots.
I don’t see it coming, don’t even feel it until I’m on the ground. The lag between the blow and the pain is like an eternity. Can’t breath. I can’t breath! A spasm wracks my body and I cough, gasp really, more of an exhale of nothing. Through freshly tear-streaked eyes I look up, can’t make out features but the profile against the blinding sun speaks of an athletic frame, long slightly wavy hair falling either side of her shoulders. There’s something familiar there. I make to speak out but she kicks me again, filling my vision with stars.
“Bitch,” she says, and steps over me, walking away.
There’s that question again, why? It plays at my thoughts, but only for a moment. My minds a jumble, can’t make sense of it. It’s getting dark all of a sudden, but I’m not blacking out. I’m remembering. Ah.
I didn't ask for this. I don't want this. Do I deserve this? How am I supposed to know? No one asked me, no one gave me an option, I had no say in it. Yet it's what I do. Every day. What I'm 'good' at. What I'm 'supposed to be'. What I'm 'designed' to be.
I raise my hand, long, elegant finger extended to press the buzzer. What would happen if I didn't? If I just walked away? No, that would be no good, it wouldn't be enough to protect her. To save her. Has anyone actually ever tried? I don't know. I don't think so. Well, how would I know anyway, it's not as if anyone ever has it would be advertised. Sure, things go wrong from time to time, the wrong decisions made, needing correction. But not to me. No, I'm too 'good', I don't make 'mistakes'.
It gnaws at my mind. The options, such that they are. Everything I'd have to do to not do. Every step, every decision, every deception. It wouldn't end here, today. It would continue, for years - decades. Life. Not just mine, hers. On and on and on and on. Every day. Would it be worth it? Would she want it? Would she thank me? I don't care about that, I'm no narcissist. I'm just old. Old and tired.
When I was younger, when I was fresh and new, naïve to the ways of this world - I enjoyed this. I was excited. I was making a real difference, you know? And I was good! I really was - well, am, but I didn't realise then to what extent. Every assignment gave me a thrill, a purpose. At the end of each day - every one - I clocked off, happy, exhilarated, even. The world was getting better, and I played a part in making it so.
Then the assignments changed. Slowly at first. This was the intent of course, but it took me a while to realise. I think the idea was that the further you go down this path the more you change, the subtle shifts in focus, the content of the work, it's designed to numb. To chip away at your very soul. I've seen it, hundreds of times. All of my peers, there's something about them, something missing. They smile, laugh, joke around and do all the things that 'normal' people do - but there's a deadness there, you can see it in their eyes, hear it in their voice. Subtleties. Others probably wouldn't notice, but in my line of work, the people I see every day - the people whose children I condemn. It's everyone, every background, every path available in this life - I've seen all those who walk them, for I'm the one that puts them there.
A noise jerks me back to reality, a high-pitched buzz, somewhat muted through the plasteel door. Looking up again I see my finger, that elegant bastard with a mind of it's own, poking at the button. Oh well, there goes that then, decision made.
It took a few minutes before the soft click of the locking mechanism, disengaging, sounded. Long minutes, minutes made up of hours, drawn out, pregnant with suspense. Finally the door slid open, the young face of the new father towering above me by a good foot.
"Hi", he said, the trepidation in voice belying the sickly smile plastered upon his face. Sticking out his right hand expectantly he introduced himself, "Ryan, you must be Mr Porter? Please, come in."
I took his hand, his grip firm and bordering on crushing. That squeeze prevalent in many men, the over confidence of physical superiority trying to mask the under confidence of self. I returned the shake, acknowledging him with a nod, the well practiced smile covering my features with the familiarity of a well-worn glove.
"Yes, indeed - but please, call me Robert." Upon releasing his hand there was the briefest of pauses, an awkward moment of hesitation as if he was taking a last chance to think something through. Then, with a nod of his own he took a step back into the hallway, moving to one side and gesturing for me to enter his home.
"She's doing well," he said, "six weeks in and she's so much easier than my friends would have had me believe. Sophie is so happy, she won't let her leave her sight. I have to promise to not leave the house every time I manage to take her off her so she can nap, she's such a worrier - not in a bad way, mind, it's just that she's - we've - wanted this for so long. It's like a dream come true."
He was babbling, the words coming fast, born from both excitement and fear. It was often like this.
Smiling, I reached up to remove my hat, "Well, she is still young, there's no rush, the trees aren't going anywhere - you're both going to have many happy years ahead of you. I never had children myself, but, well here we are. Is she awake?”
“Do you need to see her? I think she’s napping. Sophie’s in with her, but, of course I’ll get her.”
“No no no,” I say, “there’s no need, let her sleep - of course your wife, Sophie, I’ll need to talk to her, there’s, um, much for us to discuss.”
“Yeah,” Ryan breathed out a short sigh - relief? “Sure, please, make yourself comfortable, I’ll be right back - oh, er, drink?”
My mouth was dry, but I could see his nerves were starting to fray. “Thank you, no, I’m good.” I dialled the smile up a notch, trying to project calm reassurance.
“Great!” He yelped, clearly startled at the sudden squeak in his voice, and half fell through the doorway out of the front room as he turned to fetch his wife.
Left alone I had a chance to take in the surroundings. It was a nice apartment, spacious but homely, the décor a contrasting mix of the minimalism of a young professional couple and the encroaching chaos of a new born. I could see the battle between old lives and new was one where the outcome was inevitable. The few pictures that adorned the walls followed a theme - young love, in a variety of exotic locations, boastful but also innocent. Both Ryan and Sophie had led relatively privileged lives. Both coming from a long line of similar genetics, they were fortunate to have been able to follow their parents into comfortable administrative roles in the government. It was clear from my research that this match, as with many others, had been to some extent engineered and encouraged by their forbears. Best chance of a favourable outcome for any prospective children. Carry on the family legacy and all that.
I felt the bile rise in my throat. Shouldn't this be easier by now? It was, I suppose, when the expectation was less. That thought made me grimace, it shouldn't matter, it should be about the child and its potential - it should be about the perversion of choice. What did it matter the child's lineage, the parents hopes? But it did, kind of. It was easier, when there was acceptance. It made it that much easier for me to fool myself that what I was doing was moral. That it was right.
Sitting down on a plush couch I laid my briefcase out on the glass coffee table in the middle of the thick rug. Placing my right thumb on the sensor, the ominous 'thunk' of the mag locks releasing seemed like a gun shot in the quiet room. Lifting the lid I looked upon the two manila folders that sat, alone, side by side. On the right was the 'official' report, the results of my analysis and genetic forecasting, the extensive and detailed schedule of treatments, the specifics of the gene editing that would cement the child's place in our society, mould the child into... But on the left, subtly marked in one corner with a red pen, something other. A fabrication, but one that skirted the possibilities of potential. One of hope, one that took a chance at another way. One that bent the rules in dangerous ways, that challenged the status quo. One that would be the end of me - and her - if it failed. Many times I'd been here, but never before had I been so sure, never before had I let my heart follow through.
Before me was a fork in the road - do I take the easy-out? Do I take one step further down the path, one step further away from my soul? Or do I take the path to redemption? It's a long one, one fraught with peril, commitment, but with the chance of a reformation, to sow the seeds of revolution.
"Robert, hi," came Sophie's tired but expectant voice, entering the room before her husband, cradling a yellow blanket in her arms, tiny pink fingers slowly clutching at the air. Tilting her head down, gazing deep into her child's eyes with all the love of a mother, she smiled.
"This is Hope."
I reached out a hand towards the case.
