Sons of Earth

by Geralyn Wichers

  Khalia shut her eyes and tried to hold the memory, keep it from fading. It'd been ages since she'd been touched—touched in tenderness, that was. With Jeremy, there'd been no shortage of sex, even on the worst days. She'd been in no place to refuse.

  But now what? Khalia glanced at her phone again. There were no messages. He’d left no note, though the single apartment key was sitting on the half-wall by the entry. Was this the start of something?

  Or was it nothing?

  She picked at leftovers from the party, put on the clothes she’d originally come in, and picked up her bags. Only then did she remember the tree. It sat in the corner, unplugged. Dominic must have switched it off in the morning, because it had been all lit up last she remembered.

  Well, it could stay. She didn’t feel like taking it down. It might be all that remained of the night before. She wanted Dominic to walk in the door and remember her.

  CHAPTER 5

  The facility was quiet. Dominic set his paper coffee-cup down on his desk and eased out of his coat. Around him the only sound was the hum of computers and equipment, and somewhere, a soft burble from a water line leading to one of the biocribs.

  He slipped into a lab coat, mask and gloves, and opened the door to the MFP2 area. The five biocribs hummed within their blue halos. The MFP’s lay motionless, but for the rise and fall of their chests. They were growing well ahead of MFP1’s schedule. In a month they would reach the size of an ordinary five year old, two months and they’d be adolescents.

  Dominic took out his phone like he was just checking the time, even though no one was watching the video feeds of the biocribs, and snapped two photos of the juvenile MFP’s. Chassagne would enjoy them.

  He slipped the phone into his pocket and took the day’s readings. When he’d made sure the automated cribs had begun the morning feed cycle, he stood back and watched.

  Should he call Khalia? Exactly how would a normal human being go about this?

  One: he couldn’t afford to make an enemy of her. She trusted him and he needed to keep it that way. Two: he sure as hell wanted to be with her again.

  For either one, he needed to call her, because that was what she would want, right?

  Dominic exited the lab and looked over the notes Adam had left for him. On the weekends Caspian was run by a skeleton crew. He was the only lab personnel for the entire facility. He ran his eyes down the list: exams of third stage MFP’s, and then he was to ‘make himself available’.

  Do nothing, in other words. There was almost no point in him being here. He could have stayed at home, where there was a willing woman in his bed.

  Hmm, no. Better to be here. Getting up in the morning was sometimes complicated after these things. When Adam had called him, at five in the morning, and told him that he was sick and that he needed a replacement, Dominic had felt a measure of relief.

  Dominic gulped the last of his coffee, grabbed a tablet computer, and then headed through the silent halls toward the airlock.

  As he stepped into the white hallway, an operator passed him and smiled at him. She was pretty in a mousy way, and a little plump. But whenever he saw her, she always smiled. She worked with the fourth stages.

  He paused and turned back. “Miss…?”

  She turned back. “Yes?”

  “I am the lab operator today. Is there anything going on with the fourth-stages I should know about?”

  She tilted her head to the side. “Not at this point, but thanks for letting me know.”

  They parted ways, and Dominic slipped into the first third-stage room. He took his time among the biocribs, examining each MFP with more care than required, and spending time just looking at them, watching their chests rise and fall, watching their eyelids flutter as their brains were stimulated by the cycles of the machines. It was mid-shift by the time he finished.

  He realized he was hungry, and simultaneously, that he’d packed nothing. He sat down in the empty cafeteria and opened one of the cans of soup they had for sale there. It tasted like salt and nothing else. He thought about phoning Khalia, but he glanced at his phone and did nothing.

  Instead of waiting in the empty lab, he went back onto the floor and amused himself by memorizing the ins and outs of the floor corridors, poking into corners, and trying his keys on the engineering corridors. To his surprise, he found that he could open them and peer down into the long, narrow spaces where there was just enough space to walk around the pipes and wiring.

  “Hmm.”

  “Um, sir…?” He turned and shut the door quickly. The same operator he’d spoken to earlier stood there. Her blue eyes were wide and her mouth hung slightly open. “Sir, can you help… me?” She backed up and began to walk away.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “I have a bit of a…” she glanced back. “A bit of a situation.” She was pale.

  She pushed open the door beside the fourth stage rooms that led to a private exam room. Inside, a black-garbed MFP sat on the exam table, staring at him with wide blue eyes. His arm was clutched across his chest. Blood seeped through his fingers.

  “What happened?” Dominic asked, the words coming out with bite. He strode up to the MFP and reached to pull his hands away so he could see the wound. The MFP pulled away, his lips pressed together and his eyes flared with blue fire.

  Defiance. A thrill passed through Dominic’s belly.

  “Number?” he asked.

  The MFP stared straight at him and said nothing.

  “MFP25A67,” the operator said quietly. “He cut his arm on…” She didn’t seem to know what to say.

  He was beginning to see what had happened. Dominic turned to the cabinets along the wall and poured a small amount of liquid from a vial onto a paper towel. As he approached the MFP, it drew away from his hand. As it did, he pressed the towel to its mouth. In two seconds it slumped over, and its hand released the death grip on its arm.

  Dominic sighed. “Put pressure on the wound, please.” He changed his gloves and took out the box of wound-dressing materials.

  “Okay, let go for a moment.”

  The operator released the limp arm, and Dominic leaned in to examine it. The wound was a neat slash diagonally across the wrist, not overly deep—much deeper and the MFP would have bled out if not discovered. In fact…

  “He did this to himself?” Dominic turned and scrutinized the operator.

  She drew back and stammered unintelligibly.

  “So, yes.” Poor bastard. “He wasn’t very efficient, but…” Dominic stopped short. A tear rolled down her cheek.

  “Don’t kid me,” she said, wiping it away. “He’s deviant, so he’s done for. Ah, Jesus.”

  What, did this sniveling mess care for the man?

  “I knew something was up with him,” she said toward her feet. “But I thought maybe…”

  Dominic grimaced. If she did care about him, there was nothing she could have said that wouldn’t have set the quality lab onto the MFP and given him a quick trip to rejection. “We won’t discuss it now. We must get the wound closed up.” He took the items for sutures out of the box and, with her help, closed the wound and dressed it.

  After he’d cleaned his hands, Dominic pulled two black zip-ties out of a box and tied the MFP to the table, one above the injured wrist, and one on the uninjured. The MFP would come out of his drugged state soon. Dom leaned against the wall and turned to the operator again.

  “Is there anything else I can do?” she whispered. Her eyes were bloodshot now. She’d cried the entire time she’d been helping him, rankling his nerves. “Maybe if I take care of him he’ll recover? Y-you can’t just throw him out. You can’t.”

  She had his attention now. He took a step toward her. “Why not?”

  She shrank back. “He’s a man, not a robot. His life is sacred.”

  “Sacred?” Dominic frowned at her. “Even if he does recover, he’s obviously out of spec. His eyes are blue. Thus, he has received the wrong genetic material and must be out
of spec in other areas.” He took another step toward her.

  This time she stood her ground and looked him straight in the eye. “So he's worthless? Is that what you are saying?”

  “No.” Dominic returned to the wall. “No, he isn’t.” A wild plan was beginning to circulate in his brain. The lab was empty, and there was basically no security about the place…

  Don’t be an idiot. You decided this already. MFP1 is a loss. Wait for MFP2.

  He could keep the MFP in the lab until the end of his shift, and then slip him out to his car…

  What the hell will you do with him?

  The MFP took that moment to turn his head. He blinked, fixed his eyes on Dominic’s white lab coat and jerked against the restraints. The black plastic bit into his arms, but he made no sound. He thrashed again, so violently that the heavy exam table wobbled.

  “Shh,” the operator leapt to his side and grabbed his shoulders. “A67, please don’t hurt yourself any worse. It’s all right. It’s going to be all right.”

  The MFP’s wild eyes stared into hers. He jerked again, feebly, and lay still. With one hand still reassuringly on his arm, she turned back to Dominic.

  Damn it, I can't just inject him.

  “I have an idea,” Dominic said. “But you have to swear to me that you can keep this a secret. Tell anyone and it will be your job, perhaps even your life.”

  The operator’s eyes went big. She swallowed hard, but nodded.

  “What time do you get off shift?”

  “Four.”

  “I will keep him in the lab until then. Do you know the outside of the building?”

  “Not really.”

  This was coming together as he spoke. “There is an emergency exit by the lab. Do you know where that is?”

  She nodded slowly.

  “Come to the exit and get him. I will give you keys and you will put him in my car. I will walk out the front as usual, and take him.”

  “What will you do with him?” She stroked the MFP’s arm gently as she spoke, like he was a scared animal. A67 was taking it all in, drawn back as far as his restraints would let him.

  That was the one thing he hadn’t worked out yet. “I don’t know.”

  “Bring him to me,” she said. Her jaw set, like she knew what she was talking about. “I’ll take care of him.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “I have a husband. We will find a place for him, or take care of him ourselves.”

  “If they find you—“

  “I know.”

  The conviction in her voice arrested him. Dominic blew out a long breath. “All right.”

  She turned to the MFP. “This man is going to take you to the lab. Go quietly with him. He will not harm you.” She held out her hand to Dominic. “Pass me the scissors.”

  Dominic placed them in her hand, but moved closer and stood ready. Had it been him on that table, he would have seen the scissors as a weapon to get ahold of. But when she had cut the MFP free, he struggled to sit. She supported him and helped him stand.

  Dominic took the “Further Testing Required” badge from the wall and stuck it on the MFP’s shirt. “All right, come.”

  His heart was beating like it meant to escape from his chest. He kept the MFP in front of him, and watched his every move, his body language. If it was him he would have been waiting for his opportunity to fight free.

  But the MFP trusted the woman. That was evident enough. And though he kept glancing from side to side, nothing suggested that he was about to bolt.

  He led the MFP to the holding room. “Rest here for a while, all right? There’s no one here but me. You’ll be fine.” He pushed the MFP into a sitting position on the bed, backed out of the room, and locked the door behind him. A few minutes later, he glanced in through the slit window. MFP25A67 was lying on his side, his injured arm clutched to his chest.

  There were two things to attend to. First, he must remove the computer chip from A67's shoulder. Second, if A67 was to leave the building, he must be accounted for. Dominic paced the floor in front of his desk, his chin in his hands.

  Technically, A67 was reject. He could fill out the paperwork saying MFP25A67 was rejected and incinerated. Was there anyone working in the rejection room?

  Dominic logged onto his computer and onto the schedule. No one was scheduled in that room. Perfect. He would do the rejection himself. He'd file it directly onto the computer, and then go down to sign the logs.

  A67 jerked away as he entered the holding room with a scalpel in hand.

  "Quiet," Dominic grabbed his shoulder, "I need to remove your tracking chip, or we won't get very far. Do you want them to hurt you?"

  A67 shook his head. His face was chalk-pale, lips tight together, eyes huge.

  "Take off your shirt. I'll give you something for the pain when I'm done."

  The chip wasn't far below the surface. The MFP didn't cry out and barely flinched as the scalpel sliced into his skin. Dominic eased forceps into the wound and tugged on the silver chip until it came free. It was about the size of his pinky nail, smeared with A67's blood.

  Dominic dropped it into a little plastic bag. He unlocked a cupboard and shook a pain reliever out of one of the bottles. He watched the MFP swallow the pill. Then Dominic carried the bloody chip down to the rejection room to sign the log book.

  MFP25A67 was officially rejected. Cause: weight, out of spec, deviant temperament, and blue eyes, evidence of tainted genetic material.

  This is insane. You'll jeopardize everything for one MFP.

  Too late.

  __

  Justine stood shivering in the half-light outside the emergency exit. She peered around at the snow-covered cedars beside her and, on the other side, the parking lot. She was pretty sure she was hidden in the shadows, but about fifty meters from her, the bus was just pulling away. It felt like a hundred little eyes were staring at her—from the bushes, from the plate glass windows of the lab, from the bus as it sputtered and rumbled away.

  She knew there weren’t guards anywhere near this door, but it felt like they could appear at any moment, guns drawn.

  She heard a slight bump inside the building. The rubber seal of the door crackled, and it swung open. The scientist’s head poked out.

  “Here,” Justine whispered.

  “Take this key.” He held out a round metal pod with a silver tristar on it. “It’s a black Mercedes. And here he is.” He pushed the door open a little wider with one arm, and ushered the MFP out with the other. MPF25A67 was wearing a black wool coat and jeans—the scientists’. If his face wasn’t pale as the snow around her, he might look normal.

  “Hello, A67,” Justine said in what she hoped was a reassuring tone. “It’s pretty cold out here, but we’ll get you into a warm car in a moment.”

  “I’ll be out in a few moments.” The door closed behind the scientist. There was no handle on the outside.

  Justine sucked in a long, cold breath and steeled her shaking knees. “All right. Come.” She put her hand on his elbow and steered him toward the parking lot. “How are you feeling?”

  “Okay,” A67 said softly.

  The Mercedes was one of two cars in the parking lot. Justine pulled out the pod and stared at it. "Do I press this?" She pressed one of two buttons on the metal circle. The car made a chirping sound, and she found that she could open the door.

  “Neat,” she whispered. Perhaps that was completely normal. She had never driven a car. Casey drove a truck for work, but she suspected that was something entirely different.

  She pushed A67 into the back seat, where the windows were tinted, and got into the passenger seat. The leather was stiff with cold, and the inside was only warmer by virtue of being out of the wind, but she didn’t want to hazard pushing any more buttons. Who knew what the car would do?

  The scientist, in only a thin wool sweater and black MFP scrub-pants, walked up at a forced slow pace, and slipping into the driver’s seat. “You could have started it,”
he said. He pushed a button on the car's console, and it roared to life.

  Justine and A67 gasped. “I’ve never operated a car,” she said.

  “Oh.” The scientist frowned. “I see.” He pulled a small, shiny box out of his pocket and began to push buttons. "I'm just turning off my phone so it cannot be tracked."

  He swung the car around in a tight circle and rolled out of the parking lot at what was probably an ordinary pace, but it felt painfully slow. Justine gripped the slick leather under her and glanced at him. His fingers were tight around the steering wheel, pale around the knuckles. “All right,” he said. “How do I get there?”

  It was then that Justine realized she didn’t really know how to get home. The bus just drove. "I don't know."

  "What is your address?" he sighed.

  "Block 17, Tenth Street, uh... district 8."

  "Go to block seventeen, Tenth Street, district 8," the scientist said.

  He released the steering wheel, and the car rolled out of the parking lot.

  __

  “Casey?” Justine’s voice came out high and quivery. She stepped off the landing into the entrance. “Come in,” she said to the MFP and the scientist. “Come in and shut the door.”

  “Justine, where have you been?” Casey bounded out of the bedroom, wet-haired and wearing just his jeans. “I called—” He saw the scientist and the shivering MFP and skidded to a halt, halfway across the room. “Hello.”

  Justine hurried across the room, and his arm slipped around her waist.

  “This scientist from Caspian and I - we… The other is an MFP,” she whispered in his ear.

  “Which one?” Casey muttered.

  “Uh…” Justine stared at them and realized that though they weren't identical, they could have been brothers. The scientist had similar, classically handsome features and the same dark hair and eyes of an MFP. But his eyes were bright and focused on Casey's face, and A67’s blue eyes were trained on his shoes. “The-the one without a coat is the scientist. We stole him.”

  “The scientist?”

  “No, the…” Justine would have giggled if she wasn’t so keyed up. “The MFP. He’s out of spec.”