by B. C. CHASE
Wesley thought it was like playing a computer game, creating an ideal character—only the character would come out of his wife's body. Surreal, in an unsettling way.
When Doctor Angel was done toying with their son's aesthetics, he moved on to brainpower. He showed them what a likely IQ for their child would be without gene selection. It wasn't good. With a wink, he said, "We won't blame that on mom or dad." He arranged some new options for them, boosting their child's IQ by double digits. He went through different possible skills: mathematical abilities, creativity, artistic aptitudes and so forth. He probed psychological traits and reviewed sixteen possible personality types.
After stupefying them with these prospects, he dramatically switched to scare tactics. Wesley and Sienna's genes, it turned out, had a terrifying number of lurking dangers. He gave them an example of what their offspring could be without any gene selection at all: a cancerous, diabetic, and morbidly obese wretch suffering from migraine headaches, incontinence, addiction to alcohol, and high blood pressure.
“Now you know the government keeps a record of every child's DNA. If you think they won't use it to price his insurance, then you've got another thing coming. Let me tell you, with health problems like this, his healthcare costs are going to be unbearable.”
Doctor Angel told them that clearly, ethical parents couldn't allow themselves to produce such a burden to society. Moral parents would spend the extra money to abolish at least a handful of these dreadful genes.
“Let me be honest with you guys. Gene selection is the new norm; hardly anyone will be making babies the old-fashioned way, no matter how much fun it is. Performing a little gene selection now is like paying your kid's college tuition in advance—only these are guaranteed results. If you want your children to be able to compete in this world, you have to give them this head start. It's survival of the fittest.”
Wesley asked quietly, “How much does this cost?”
“Oh, well beyond the cost of getting you pregnant, the choices we're talking about would start at 20,000 and go up from there. But we'll work with you.”
Sienna protested, “We don’t have that kind of money.”
“How much did both your cars cost?”
“Uh . . . .”
“You financed your cars, am I right?”
“Yes.”
“And how much do you owe on your house? Just a little bit?” he squeezed two fingers together, smiling wryly. “Look, guys, we work with banks all over the country. We can finance anyone, no matter their situation.”
Wesley hesitated, “I don't think we'd want more debt.”
Doctor Angel leaned back in his chair, folding his hands on his chest and adopting a sage expression, “You financed those temporal things, but you wouldn't finance your child's future? Wesley, you're young so I'll cut you some slack, but you really have to ask yourself about the wisdom of that kind of thinking. I mean, if you don't do it now he's just going to have to pay for all this stuff later in gene therapy treatments. That is way more expensive than what we're talking about here. And because he can't get a job and has such high health insurance costs, guess whose door he's going to be knocking on for money. That's right. Yours; Mommy's and Daddy's. The people who didn't invest in his future when it really mattered.” He sighed, “Frankly, if you can't do this for your child, it might be time to talk about whether you guys are ready to be parents. Are you responsible enough?” He tapped closed the “Conception” program and glanced over his e-mails. “I don't remember off the top of my head, but I'm not sure your metrics on 'planning' were very high. Procrastinators, both of you.”
He looked up, “So, what do you say?”
Like they had learned to do at any car dealership, they left to talk it over before they made a choice.
They were overwhelmed by all the miracles science could work. What should they do? What was the right thing to do? Should they do anything at all?
In the end, it was all irrelevant. Shocking Doctor Angel, Sienna missed her period and turned up positive on a pregnancy test the next day. An intuitive distaste for Doctor Angel led her to return to her original doctor, Richard Kingsley, while she brought the baby to term.
So this night when they had slipped into bed, they were happy. She had a decent-sized baby bump; fourteen weeks. All was well.
Wesley spun around to where Sienna was pointing, expecting to face an intruder, but there was no one there.
"Please look! He could be alive on the bed!" she screamed. Turning back to her, he saw that she had knocked a vase off the tile surrounding the bathtub. His heart sank with a sudden realization: her stomach was conspicuously flat.
There was no intruder. She had lost the baby.
After all they had been through he couldn’t believe it. As he stepped back toward the bed, he thought about the last maternity checkup. Doctor Kingsley said everything was progressing just fine. That was four days ago.
So what had happened?
Wesley approached the bed and was sick at the sight of a little lump under the white comforter.
It definitely wasn't moving. Then again, he didn't expect it to be; he was pretty sure a baby couldn't survive a miscarriage at fourteen weeks. The duvet was draped off the side of the mattress and was dripping blood. Wesley had never felt so sickened in all his life. He didn't want to uncover the lump in the covers. He didn't want to see their baby like this. He wondered if it would be best just to call 911.
"Wes?" Sienna cried weakly. "Is he . . . . . Is he alive?"
Wesley closed his eyes and jerked the cover off the lump. Slowly, his stomach in a knot, he allowed his eyelids to open.
Nothing.
The baby was not there. The lump under the duvet was nothing but a sheet wad.
Wesley checked the path back to the bathroom again. There was no fetus on the floor, only blood. He checked through all the covers, searched under the bed. Nothing. He went back to the bathroom and looked at his wife's surroundings. The fetus wasn't there. He opened the lid of the toilet, just in case.
"What are you doing?" his wife asked.
"It's gone. There's no fetus."
"Don't call him a fetus."
"Did you go anywhere else but the bathroom?"
"No, I . . . I came right here." She was pale and looked weak. Then she gasped, clutching her stomach, where the baby bump had clearly disappeared.
“Bad pain?” Wesley asked.
She nodded, her eyes squeezed shut.
"I'm calling 911," Wesley said, concerned that she had lost so much blood.
But as he walked out into the living room to retrieve his phone, something told him that he should also be worried by the fact that their baby had totally and completely vanished.
United Nations Security Council
Doctor Matthew Martin was sitting at the front row of the vast audience that had gathered at the United Nations Security Council chamber. The chamber was airy, expansive. A large painting ornamented the front of the room with a giant semi-circular desk situated below it. The top of the auditorium was circled with blacked-out glass from where Doctor Martin knew an army of the international press was busy broadcasting the event to the world. The fact that he knew the event had garnered so much global attention made him all-the-more nervous.
When he had received the call from Secretary General Kwame Aidoo, he had scarcely been able to believe it. His work of the last eleven years had received positive attention mostly only from the lunatic fringe. Now was the chance to provide his discoveries with the mainstream exposure they deserved.
Science had been meddling with the tinker-toys of the universe; physics, biology, anthropology and the like, he thought. Now it was time to move beyond that. Now, it was time to play with the big boys. And he, Matthew Manley Martin, was going to be the harbinger.
He was scared senseless.
Sitting next to him, his fiancée squeezed his trembling hand. “How are you?” she inquired, her voice smooth and controlled, as always.
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“Developed a bit of a stomach upset, I'm afraid,” he replied.
She shook her head, trying to hide a grin, “Have you, pet? Shock me.” Then she said, “You're quite pale.”
“Am I?” he inhaled fretfully. “Well, we can only hope they listen to my words rather than critique my appearance.”
“I'm sure that they will,” she said. She patted his cheek, “Don't worry.” She raised her hand, displaying a diamond ring, “Your powers of persuasion were convincing enough even for me.”
He grinned, “As I recall, you did not require much persuasion. You've always been a bit of a dominatrix, haven't you?”
“Have I?” she asked, biting her lip and touching a finger to her chin.
From the front of the gigantic auditorium, the gavel made an unceremoniously tinny clang as a gray-haired man struck it three times. He was seated at the giant circular desk with at least twenty other men and women, each with small plaques in front of them. His read “AUSTRALIA—PRESIDENT.”
Adjusting the microphone, the man said, “The 7,402nd session of the General Assembly is called to order. The provisional agenda for the session is before the assembly in document S-AGENDA-7593 which reads, quote, 'Evaluation of Key Events and Phenomena Relevant to Awareness, Felicity, and Security.' Unless there is an objection I will consider the agenda adopted.” He banged the gavel, “Adopted.” Bowing his head for a moment, he said, “Before we begin, I would like to take a moment to declare our compassionate solidarity with the United States in this time of tremendous difficulty. We express our deepest condolences. Our thoughts and prayers are with you.” He nodded to the representative of the United States, who acknowledged.
“I would now like to welcome the distinguished heads of state, the representatives, and the Secretary General to this meeting. Thank you all for coming. This meeting will be somewhat unconventional, but as you are all well aware, the topic is also unconventional. And now, without further ado, I would like to welcome the first member of our witness panel, Doctor Matthew Martin.”
Doctor Martin had not expected it to happen so quickly. He was frozen in his chair. There was supposed to be some long introductory speech, some politicians were supposed to wax eloquent for far longer than anyone had the forbearance to listen. Then, when everyone was properly stupefied, Doctor Martin thought, he would be called upon to take the chair. Not like this: not the opening act.
“Doctor Matthew Martin?” the Australian repeated, staring at him.
His fiancée gave his hand another squeeze and he regained control of his body. He reached down for the pile of paperwork underneath his chair and, rising, stepped up to the front, feeling every eye upon him.
The auditorium was engulfed in total silence and his footsteps echoed off the giant walls. He reached the tiny desk that sat facing the large circle of representatives and set his papers down, one fluttering off to the floor. The audience laughed. Paper was so rare that, apparently, its appearance floating in the air was amusing to the modern imbeciles, Dr. Martin thought. As he knelt to retrieve the stray sheet, the gray-haired man said, “We can provide you with a tablet.”
“Yes, thank you. I prefer good old paper.” The chair behind the desk squeaked as he sat in it. He cleared his throat and stared up at the circle of power-brokers.
Suddenly, he was frantic. His eyes darted from person to person. Where is she? He spun around and found her. In the mass of humanity, he found His fiancée smiling encouragement from the front row.
Somehow, the longer he had known her, the more dependent upon her he had become. In a way, it was odd. In another, disconcerting. All he really knew is that this woman had suddenly appeared in his life just when he needed her, and without her he was nothing. He couldn't help but love her, whether she was in charge or not.
He turned back around and hesitantly tapped the microphone. Hearing the loud reverberation it caused, he leaned forward and spoke softly, “Thank you, Secretary Kwame Aidoo, for inviting me to this pivotal meeting. As you know, when I spoke at TED my talk was censored, that is, removed, so I am grateful for this opportunity. Thank you, members of the Security Council, for indulging me with your time. And thank you, all of you who are here or watching remotely, for lending your ears to this subject, a subject which is quite certain to turn your little worlds,” he giggled, wiped sweat from his forehead, “upside down.”
The Australian representative said, “May you state your name and position for the record, sir?”
The professor adjusted his feet under the desk, and replied. “My name is Matthew Martin, I am a professor of biology of at the University of Cambridge, England.”
“Thank you, sir. Now, please proceed with your testimony.”
Doctor Martin felt himself calming. This was no different than a lecture at the university, he thought. His tone was even as he said, “Many of you might have sensed throughout your lives that there was something beyond what you could see or touch; that there was a power or presence, if you will, beyond the physical world. You might have heard of psychic phenomena such as fortune-telling or mind reading or telepathy. You might have seen these things for sale, perhaps at a fair or on the internet. You might have experienced certain strange feelings or thoughts that you could not explain. Feelings such as déjà vu or premonitions. You might have sensed that ideas were placed in your mind. You might believe that you were contacted by something or someone. You have heard of 'out of body' experiences and find them either unsettling, or empowering. You might have been frightened, even terrified at times and not known why; for example, in the dark.
“If any of this is true of you, then rest assured, you are not alone. I have also experienced some of these things, and so have eighty percent of the world's population, according to research.[4] And I believe,” he chuckled, “that the same is true of this as it is about the study on men and masturbation: ninety-nine percent of men admit they have masturbated, and the other one percent are lying.
“Now, these phenomena are so common and so pronounced, in fact, that religions are founded upon them. When looked at as a whole, the fact is that, for better or worse, the 'spiritual' or 'psychic' side of humanity has been the greatest force for change acting on the world since the beginning of recorded history.”
He shifted his feet again. “In dealing with these phenomena, let us call them 'psychic phenomena,' you will fall into one of nine groups. In the first group, you find them so overpowering that they become the focal point of your worldview and you ascribe powers of good or evil to them, devote significant amounts of your time trying to appease them, and do a great deal to convince others to do the same. This would be most of the population who strictly adhere to a religion of some sort.
“Second group: You believe they are real and are forces to be harnessed for your personal benefit and advancement. This would also be many religious adherents, such as charismatic Christians, Krishna Buddhists, and so forth.
“Third group: You believe they are mostly evil and, as such, should either be ignored or warded away through the use of incantations, good luck charms, evil eyes, or other means. This would include many Native American faiths and superstitions of the American Ozarks in the nineteenth century.
“Fourth group: You do not know what to think, so you think nothing.
“Fifth group: You believe they have something to do with outer space and are at risk of becoming fixated with UFO sightings, crop circles, cattle mutilations, abductions, and other phenomena. Once a firm believer, you may become convinced that you have experienced sightings or abductions yourself. The British UFO Association is a glorious example of this.
“Sixth group: You are skeptical. You think that in cases where subjects are not fabricating information, psychic phenomena are always explainable by science. They are contrivances or afflictions of the mind; for example, they take the form of mental illnesses or randomly firing neurons, as in dreams. Most of these phenomena, if problematic, can be dealt with through the use of drugs. Psych
ologists make billions of dollars every year treating their patients from just this mindset.
“Seventh group: You are curious, you want to know more, but you have not learned enough yet to form an opinion or belief, and you don't find it to be worth your time. You are lazy, qey sera sera, that is all.
“Eighth group: The implications of these 'psychic phenomena' frighten you so much that you refuse to ascribe reality to them despite being knowledgeable enough to know better. You are in denial. Take Richard Dawkins as an archetypal example of this.”
He sipped some water, then continued, “In the ninth group, you are unaware, and therefore have yet to form an opinion. Less than one percent of the population can honestly claim to be in this group.
“If you are in group six, if you are a skeptic, I am now speaking to you. I was also in group six. I believed psychic phenomena were fodder for the weak-minded.
“One day, eleven years ago, I had an experience that changed my mind. It was the worst experience of my life, and it forced me to move into group seven; I now want to know more. I will now relate what happened to me that induced this change.”
Jet
Maggie met Aubrey outside the now-closed double doors of the jet's conference room. “Henry said he would like you to sit in on this meeting, but they're about to start. If you listen, you might learn something.” She led Aubrey into the room where they took seats against the wall, off to the side of a table where there were seven men in suits, including Henry, and one elderly woman in an elegant-looking emerald-green pantsuit. Seated at the head of the table, she had a hawkish nose, but this feature was grandstanded by her large, piercing eyes.
