by Lauren James
Shen shrugs. “He’s ancient, right? Maybe his software is incompatible with the malware.”
“Lucky you,” I say to Mitch.
He prods me with one long finger.
“Did you bring food? I’m starving,” Shen asks.
“Ham sandwiches.”
“Brilliant.”
Shen is clearly not as bothered as me about the flight, because he has already pulled a sandwich out of his rucksack and started eating it. He holds another out to me.
My stomach twists, and I push it away. “How are you so chill right now?”
He shrugs. “It’s not like it can get much worse, right? Our parents are unconscious, our whole community was a lie, and we’re probably the only real humans left in the world. I’m long past the point of freaking out.”
I sigh. “I’m not. Nor is my stomach.”
He makes a sympathetic face and shoves a home-brewed ginger beer into my hands. “Drink up. We’ve got a species to save.” He pulls the door closed, tugs on his headphones and says, “Let’s get going, Mitch.”
To my surprise, the drink actually does calm my stomach as we lift upwards in a roar of air. I pull on my glasses, peering out of the window. London comes into view before us: the hospital, and the familiar streets, and my house in the distance, with the beige curve of the drive and the lush green of the garden. Then we’re high enough to see across Hyde Park to Shen’s house and, all the way in the distance, the brown expanse of the Thames.
Seeing London from above really makes me notice the decay. Every street is a wreck of collapsed buildings. It gets worse and worse as we fly out of the centre. The houses out here are overwhelmed with green: nettles and brambles and elder trees growing out of rooftops.
Seeing it all like this makes me realise how carefully the Babygrows have maintained the streets in the centre of London. Our houses are a small museum to the past. The life we live, full of pristine, gilded furniture and endless recreational facilities, has all been kept in the middle of a lost ruin.
I never used to think about it like that. I only saw what I wanted to see: my home. I used to think of London as a small but strong community, fighting to survive. Now it looks pathetic: a few scattered houses full of people refusing to accept that humanity isn’t needed any more, that the world has moved on.
None of it really matters anyway. It’s all just – stuff. We’re living in an entertainment circus designed to keep us from hurting over the real state of the world. With every silk throw, every gold ornament, every expensive piece of tech, our parents were avoiding having to face the truth.
We leave London quickly, crossing countryside as we fly towards Wales. I try to focus on feeling less sick, watching the shadows of clouds as they drift across the land below. The old agricultural fields are now meadows and forests, full of wildlife. The patchwork pattern of hedges between fields is still visible, overgrown but clinging on. How long will it be before even those medieval human structures are gone?
If anything, the near-extinction of humanity has improved the world. Without billions of humans creating carbon emissions, the Earth is healthier and cleaner than ever. Hard-working armies of bots have restored the planet’s ecosystem after it was left in a wreck of rising seas and nuclear waste.
Maybe we should just accept that our time has come. Homo sapiens have reached the end of our branch in the genealogical family tree. For the first time, I don’t fear the thought. This might be for the best, after all. It’s evolution.
All that’s left to do now is bide our time until the end. My existence is just a token gesture, one final attempt to show history that humanity isn’t extinct yet.
MyWaves05
Darcy looks just like a little version of @Rizzz. She even sits with him and draws now, and she’s getting quite good because she’s been practising so much. (Of course, her tantrums are all from him too.)
Posted on 18 Sep 2036
Rizzz on 18 Sep 2036
Replying to @MyWaves05
I will not stand to have my name slandered in this fashion. Her sass comes from you and only you.
Blueburnedskies on 18 Sep 2036
Replying to @MyWaves05
This is so cute! Are you going to teach her dressmaking when she’s a bit older, so she has one of your hobbies too?
MyWaves05 on 18 Sep 2036
Replying to @Blueburnedskies
Definitely! She’s already helping me choose fabrics for her dresses and dungarees.
MyWaves05
I left my bag on the Tube today, with my purse and Darcy’s teddy in it. She’s distraught. If any of you are on the Circle line, can you keep an eye out for it, please? You’ll make her day. Here’s a pic.
Posted on 31 Oct 2036
MyWaves05
If they try to shut this boy down, I swear I will drive to Yorkshire and adopt that child myself. Poor kid.
Posted on 21 Nov 2036
NEWSBREAKING.COM
SINGLE DAD DIES, LEAVES
BEHIND BABYGROW SON
The Yorkshire Authorities are in chaos this week after Anthony Potdar, a local father, died leaving behind no legal guardian for his eight-year-old Babygrow son, who he has raised alone since his birth.
As there is no structure in place to deal with an orphaned Babygrow child, the boy has been placed with an ex-foster parent in the local area.
The future of the boy is currently being discussed, as the father left no will with instructions for his son’s care. Some are suggesting that the boy should be put up for adoption, while others believe that, without a living guardian, the Babygrow should be shut down.
This debate ties into a global ethical conversation which has been taking place for many years now at the Equality and Human Rights Commission: what is the status of a Babygrow? If they are to be classed as living beings, then shutting down a Babygrow child is akin to murder.
Meanwhile, the Yorkshire Adoption Agency is seeking any friends or relations of Anthony Potdar who may be living in the local area. If you know someone, you can contact the YAA here.
Blueburnedskies on 21 Nov 2036
Replying to @MyWaves05
I’m always so worried about this happening to my daughter. My mum is really prejudiced against Babygrows and doesn’t see the point of them. I genuinely think if I died she’d just shut her down. Under current laws, there’s nothing I can do to stop her.
MyWaves05
Since Darcy’s illness, @Rizzz and I have become increasingly involved in campaigning for Babygrow rights. Our children deserve to have a future. They deserve birth certificates. They deserve full equality under the Human Rights Act. They deserve to inherit our estates after we die. They deserve a future beyond us. How long after our deaths will they survive? We have no way of knowing unless we change the laws. Please sign this petition to help get these issues debated in parliament.
Posted on 18 Dec 2036
MyWaves05
This just made me cry.
Posted on 4 Feb 2037
NEWSBREAKING.COM
COUPLE CHOSEN TO RECEIVE IVF FROZEN EMBRYO DECIDE TO RAISE CHILD ALONGSIDE THEIR BABYGROW SON
When Derek and John Trentham received the letter of a lifetime, telling them that they had been chosen to adopt one of the last UK-owned fertile embryos, they were faced with a dilemma. The embryos, which came from donors who are no longer living, are only available to those couples without any existing children, and the Trenthams have a nine-year-old Babygrow son, Stefan.
“It took about a millisecond to make our decision,” Derek said. “We told the NHS that we had a son already.”
“We had no idea whether they’d give the embryo to someone else when they found out about Stefan,” John added. “There was no precedent for this that we could find. But Stefan has been our first priority since he was born. There was just no way we would choose any child over him, even a biological one. If the NHS decided to offer the chance of adoption to someone else, then that was a risk we just had t
o take.”
Luckily the fertility council was understanding, and Derek and John were allowed to adopt the baby, Oliva Trentham, who was born last month in their hometown of Norwich. She is only the third biological baby born in the UK this year, and it seems unlikely that another embryo will be released until 2039.
“Knowing that Olivia is one of the few biological babies to be born this year, and that we get to raise her – well, we feel very lucky,” Derek said.
Stefan, meanwhile, is ecstatic about the birth of his new baby sister. “She’s got blue eyes like mine!” he told this paper, when asked for a comment. “I love her!”
There are now fewer than a hundred fertile ovum left, and a recent global fertility report announced that there has been no progress on solving the fertility crisis. By contrast, the rate of Babygrow births continues to rise each year. In 2036, there were over 450,000 BG births.
Blueburnedskies on 4 Feb 2037
Replying to @MyWaves05
Oh, this made me cry too. Of course, I’d do the same.
MyWaves05 on 4 Feb 2037
Replying to @Blueburnedskies
It does make you wonder, though, doesn’t it? What is the world going to be like in the future, when the fertility crisis is fixed and people can really have babies again without needing BGs? Do you think anyone will still use the app, for convenience? How many BG children are going to have biological siblings in a few years?
MyWaves05
I’ve never seen the coding of the Babygrow software before! This is really cool.
Posted on 22 Jul 2037
NEWSBREAKING.COM
BABYGROW SOFTWARE TO INCORPORATE ALL ONLINE USER MODIFICATIONS
All Babygrow users will be aware of the online community focused on creating modifications to the Babygrow software, in an attempt by tech-savvy parents to make their children more human. It was recently declared to be the largest collaborative project in human history. Some think that the creation of an artificial intelligence as complex as our own is as important as the moment humans discovered fire or invented the wheel.
It has seemed inevitable for a long time that the most popular Babygrow-user mods would be folded into the official software. From this week, all Babygrows will run using the modifications created by programmers around the globe.
If you’re interested, you can see some of the latest changes below:
Index: Babygrow 18.0.2 OS – file notes
path: root/babygrow-os/scripts/notes-script.php
// 21/06/2037 – Software has been updated with all online crowd-sourced modifications. All future mods will be fed into this centralized system and updated worldwide every Wednesday at 00.01 GMT
// 25/06/2037 – Update – BGs now have a randomized probability of being ticklish
// 05/07/2037 – Update – BGs with food-processing hardware installed will have automated hunger pangs if energy levels are running low. Battery-operated BGs can continue to only eat for pleasure when desired
// 19/07/2037 – Update – BGs now dream using all footage saved in their memory files
// 21/07/2037 – Update – Accent update – BGs start to pick up the accents of anyone they spend over 10 hours a day with
Require_once(“MT/babygrow-OS.php”);
CHAPTER 27
By the time we reach North Wales, I’ve worked myself into a state of anxious vibration. Mitch, in what is presumably an attempt to drive me to distraction, has started making origami swans out of pages from the helicopter’s instruction manual. His long, dexterous fingers flash back and forth with a disconcerting clicking noise as he manipulates the paper into elegant shapes, while also keeping an eye on the controls.
“Could you – use something else to make those, if you insist on doing that instead of focusing on flying?” I ask tartly, through gritted teeth. “We might need the manual.”
Mitch shifts a few centimetres away from me and slowly rips another page out of the booklet.
Shen bends a glare in my direction. “Stop antagonizing the pilot.”
I huff. “Fine. You’ve got us this far without incident. Carry on.”
“If you need a distraction, try and find the vaults,” Shen says. “Their location isn’t listed on the mapping software, because it was a secret when it was built. We’re going to have to try and track them down the old-fashioned way.” He leaves Mitch in charge of flying and comes to sit by me in the back, unfolding the yellowing pages of an old paper Ordnance Survey map of Wales, which I found in the library when I was packing.
I blink at it. The colours and lines are all a bit overwhelming. I’ve never used an actual map in my entire life, just the navigator on my tablet. We’ve used maps to Geotag the locations of our mudlarking finds for years, though, so maybe it’s not that different.
When we were especially bored, we used to make up scavenger hunts using the maps of London. We would start by giving each other a set of longitude and latitude coordinates to somewhere in the city, where a clue would be hidden. Sometimes the clue was a paper scroll tied to the branch of a tree, or a data chip thrown in a gutter, or – on one memorable occasion – an imitation duck with a message written on its underside in permanent marker. Shen had to wade into a pond to retrieve it. It was amazing. That message would then give another set of coordinates leading to the next clue, and so on. Finally, the Geotagged locations would link up to form a shape on the map. At the very centre, there would be a hidden prize.
It was basically a treasure-hunter’s dream – but it takes for ever to come up with the clues. Mum was always the best at it, because she writes them in rhyming couplets, with lots of book references. Feng once made one with chemistry reactivity equations as clues – which was far too hard for me. Shen loved that one, though. One of the clues was “Tungsten reacts with two carbon molecules and one hydrogen molecule to make oxygen and helium. Darwin would disapprove.” The answer to that was “WC2H = OHe”, and “WC2H OHE” is the postcode for the National Portrait Gallery. The next clue was hidden behind a painting of Charles Darwin.
“Snowdon is…” Shen pauses to unfold three more concertina layers of the map so it stretches across the full width of the helicopter’s cabin. “This general area. The vaults could be anywhere here.”
“Well,” I say, unimpressed, “I guess it’s a good job that we’re treasure-hunters, then.”
Shen grins widely, flashing white teeth. “On the bright side, it is a mountain. We’re not likely to fly past it and miss it, even if the entrance is hidden.”
I snort.
We start marking places on the mountain where the vaults could be. We decide that it’s likely to be somewhere there’s a clear access route to a road, and it will probably be placed in a higher section of the mountain, so that they could excavate lots of tunnels.
As we’re poring over the map, a question swells up inside me, until it bursts free. “If … if we can’t wake them up, what do you want to do?” The idea of not having our families is terrible, but the thought of the long, long future stretching out ahead of me is almost worse. Eighty, ninety, maybe a hundred years where Shen and I are all on our own. With nothing to do. Just time to spare. An endless century before the end.
“What do you mean, do?”
“With … the rest of our lives, I guess.”
Shen doesn’t reply.
“Shen?” I ask, softly.
“I’ve thought about it a lot, actually. Over the years. I don’t want to just waste my life. I want to feel like I’ve done something worthwhile.” He gives a long sigh. I squeeze his hand, and he gives me a sad smile.
His answer surprises me, though – the idea that he wants to do something worthwhile. I’m not a person of ambitions. Not at all. I live from moment to moment and enjoy the pleasures of life. I don’t have lofty goals. But Shen… Of course he wants to make a difference. I should have known that.
“Like what?” I ask.
“I’d like to travel. See all the places that nature has taken o
ver. I’m sure people have left messages all over Earth, in all the old cities and landmarks. I’d like to find them and document them.”
Something yanks at my gut. “Would you come back and visit me?”
Shen looks confused and then shocked. “Lowrie, you’d be coming with me!” He laughs, disbelievingly. “Of course you’d be there for everything! What would be the point without you?”
Warmth rushes through me, until I feel like I’m glowing from the inside. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”
“Did you really think…?”
“No. Not – not really.”
I consider exploring the world with Shen and leaving an empty London behind for years and years until we’ve seen everything there is to see. It sounds like a good way to deal with losing our family. It might very well be the only way to cope with so complete a loss. Much better than living alone, the last two people in an empty city. We could keep moving for ever, not settling down until we’re old and fragile. If there’s no other option, that might be a kind of life I could cope with – a tour of the world, to say goodbye on behalf of the human race.
“Could we go to Africa first?” I ask. “To see where the first humans lived?”
“We could start there and work outwards,” he suggests. “Retrace the migration path of the first tribes of homo sapiens as they left Africa and spread across Europe into Asia.”
“It would be like a victory lap.” The last humans following the journey of the first.
“We could find the old cities. The first place where language was created, and writing, and maths, and farming. We’d be able to follow humanity’s creations across the planet.”
“We could even do what they did: plant crops on the same land the first humans did; find a wolf and train it, where they first bred dogs.”
Shen sighs, then reaches and twists his little finger around mine. “Let’s do it. Let’s pinky swear right now. If we can’t wake our parents up, we won’t sit around moping and crying. We’ll pack up our things and fly this helicopter away from here.”
