Sons of Earth

by Geralyn Wichers

  A67 turned. His blue eyes focused on a point on the wall, beyond Casey. "How do you know they won't recognize me for what I am?"

  "Hey," Casey stepped into A67's line of sight. The MP's eyes flicked away. "Look me in the eye, little brother."

  A67's face set and he seemed to exert titanic force to bring his gaze down to Casey's. They locked eyes.

  "We're going to the woods," Casey said gently, "No one will see you there, and you'll like it there. It's peaceful—no trucks, no stink."

  "And trees," A67 whispered. Only the day before they had talked about trees, and shown him pictures in Casey's big, outdated encyclopedia.

  "But we may meet people on our way out. Look people in the eye, smile at them, be confident even if you are only pretending. MP's don't do that." Casey paused, "And I need to call you something other than A67."

  "And little brother," the MFP dropped his eyes, but then forced them back up to Casey's.

  Casey laughed softly, "Yeah." 'A67' had become unbearable in a hurry, and 'son' seemed too much. 'Little brother' flowed naturally from his tongue and forced him to see the humanity in A67. Despite himself, he wanted to see the humanity. He needed to.

  "I don't know," A67 said. His eyes wavered. He turned back to the window and wrapped his arms around himself again. "How do humans name their children?"

  Casey rubbed his chin. He and Justine had discussed baby names only in passing, but he had always imagined naming a son after his late father. He had been a veteran of the last war, the last war fought without MFPs. Casey had planned to join the army, but the arrival of MFP1 had shut that door. "We give them names we like, or the name of our parent or grandparent."

  "In that case, I would be Caspian." There was a tinge of what might be humor in his voice.

  Casey clapped the MFP’s shoulder. "I was named after my grandfather. My father's name was Sebastian."

  A67 glanced back. His eyes flicked over Casey's shoulder, then to the bridge of his nose, then into his eyes. "Does it mean something?"

  "It was the name of a Christian martyr."

  "I don't know what that means," A67 turned to face him, "But I like that name. It sounds nice. It sounds brave."

  Casey's heart sank. He shouldn't have mentioned it if he didn't want to give it up. He fought to keep his face straight.

  Let him have it, a whisper in his spirit said.

  That's my son's name, the name that will live when I'm dead, his spirit pleaded.

  Let it go.

  A67's eyes drooped at the corners and he began to turn away.

  "Sebastian, huh?" Casey's voice came out hoarse. "It does sound brave. My father was a brave man. He was a soldier, like you would have been."

  A67's face contorted in confusion.

  "They didn't always make soldiers in Caspian, little brother," Casey said. "So is it Sebastian?"

  A67 nodded. There was light in his eyes. "Will I take your surname too?"

  He steeled himself against the sigh that wanted to come out. "Yes. You can have my name. I'd like that... Sebastian."

  Sebastian's big blue eyes met his and a smile wavered on his lips. "Does that make me your real little brother? By paperwork at least?"

  Casey felt his heart shatter. He forced a smile onto his mouth. "Yeah, I guess it does."

  He turned around and grabbed his jacket from the hook by the doors, struggling with his emotions. Okay, I gave him the name. The thought was directed toward the Lord. What else will you make me give? I have nothing to give this poor soul.

  First, be his brother, the voice said within his spirit.

  __

  “Didn’t I tell you to wear a suit?” Khalia hissed as Dominic took off his coat. He was wearing his usual dark button up under a high-collared grey-blue sweater. It clung to his slim frame and made him look like a GQ model, but it wasn’t exactly the formal meeting attire that was expected of them.

  She tugged on her burgundy pencil skirt and wiggled uncomfortably as he calmly hung up the coat and turned around.

  “I don’t remember you saying that,” he said. “Shall I go home and change? Or shall I borrow Adam's jacket?”

  “What? No!" She looked up at him and gasped a half-laugh. "You'd disappear in it. This will have to do.” She reached out and adjusted his collar. His sandalwood cologne and the warmth of his body enveloped her. She looked up and her breath caught. He had been gazing down at her, taking her all in.

  “You look good,” he said in her ear.

  Pleasure radiated down through her, but the nerves snuffed it out. “Well, it doesn’t really matter what you think today.” She stepped back from him and shook her hands at her sides. “We’ll be on at nine.”

  “Good.”

  How could he be so calm? She was sweating like a damn horse inside her wine-colored suit. She could only hope the antiperspirant was holding up.

  The conference room, where the media and representatives were contained, was affectionately known as ‘the fishbowl’ for its convex, glass wall. Inside, chairs and desks had been laid out in a perfect grid in front of a podium and white screen. Khalia gulped. The vice-president of Caspian was the first to meet her eyes. He probably meant to smile, but it looked like a threatening grimace. The production manager and the lab managers beside him didn’t look much better. Behind him, twelve representatives whispered among each other.

  “Piece of cake,” Dominic whispered in her ear. She turned, and his eyes sparkled at her.

  He slipped past her and greeted the vice-president with a handshake. He took the representatives with a confident smile and reached out a hand to each of them in turn. “Dominic Vermeer,” he said.

  “Vermeer?” said one of the reps. “I know some Vermeers. Did your family come from the Netherlands?”

  “Not in recent times….”

  Kahlia sucked in a breath and followed his lead. She extended her hand to the nearest rep and forced her most genuine smile.

  In spite of her initial nervousness, she got her presentation off to a good start. As soon as she had the familiar slides up on the screen, her words began to flow. As she expounded the merits of MFP2 and its innovations, she began to feel more enthusiastic.

  The Dutch representative, the one who had been so interested in Dominic’s family name, spoke first after the presentation. “When can we expect to examine the prototypes in person?”

  Khalia leaned into the microphone. “The prototypes have reached the end of the first juvenile stage. This means they are approximately the size of a toddler. As I mentioned in my presentation, the growth of the MFP2s is slowing, but if they continue as expected, they will reach physical maturity in three months. At that point we will be releasing them for examination.”

  “How do you plan to train them?”

  “My colleague and I are still fine-tuning our program.”

  The Dutch rep had been taking furious notes. He laid down his pen. “Thank you.”

  “Have any changes been made to the physical appearance of the MFPs?” asked a man with combed-over blond hair and blue eyes swimming behind thick glasses. He tilted his head to the side and stared at her.

  “Yes…” Khalia’s face went hot in a rush. No, wait! They hadn’t made any changes. Or had they...?

  Dominic, who had been standing just behind her, took a step toward the microphone. “We at Caspian don't give much thought to appearance beyond the basic esthetics. The appearance has remained essentially the same. You may recall the generic dark hair, dark eyes, and Caucasian features of MFP1. The prototypes are manifesting similar features, as much of the original genetic material was used.” He smiled. “Dr. Kassis pushed for a blond, blue-eyed MFP as that is her preference, but…” he shrugged. “Mr. Sebert vetoed the suggestion.” He grinned at the vice-president. The representatives tittered. Khalia was sure her face was the same shade as her suit.

  And, no surprise, the next question was directed toward Dominic. “Is there any tie between the physical appearance and the performance o
f the MFPs?”

  “As I mentioned, we preferred to reuse much of the original genetic material,” Dominic said. “I am sure you understand that the essential feature is the MFP’s body composition, not facial features or skin color. Though,” a hint of humor crossed his eyes, “I suppose the previous developers preferred tall, dark and handsome.”

  Again, a light wave of laughter.

  But the man pushed up his glasses and spoke again. “Would Caspian consider tailoring their features to make them appear more like the citizens of their host country?”

  Dominic’s brow furrowed. “As a scientist I would not object, though it would require the prototyping of a new MFP entirely. However, the decision isn’t mine to make.” The questioner sat back, mollified for the moment, but Dominic continued. “As I understand, the features of the MFP were chosen to make them appear raceless, at least within the American and European markets. As it is, their DNA is pulled from donors of multiple nations.”

  The blond rep leaned forward, but kept silent. Even with the glare on his glasses, Khalia could see that his eyes were trained on Dominic.

  Dominic paced across the front of room. “However, the question poses an interesting underlying question. Do we want our MPs to be just like us?”

  Khalia’s head jerked up. He was about to go on a rant. She tried to catch his eye, but he was walking the other direction.

  “And this is what Ms. Kassis and I have discussed as we have been preparing our training regime. You see,” he turned back, his brow furrowed, and his dark eyes alight, “We don’t want our MPs to be like us, otherwise there would be no point. We don’t want them to be human. We want them to be superhuman.” He dropped his voice, and Khalia felt the room grow still. “And that, friends, is what we plan to do.”

  With that, he sat down.

  “All right, you can be the media rep from now on,” Khalia hissed to Dominic as they exited and walked down the hall toward the safety of the lab.

  “I have no objections.” He eyed her. “What was the problem?”

  “I j-just... blanked. I mean, appearance?” she turned to glare at him. “Really?”

  “No, after that. I could feel you boring holes into my back with your eyes.”

  Khalia breathed out a laugh. “I thought you were going off onto a rant, Dominic. Don’t scare me like that. But that was brilliant. You sold them completely.”

  “Well, good,” Dominic said. His lip curled, and he turned his head away. He shoved open the lab door and let her walk in ahead of him. Behind her, she heard him sigh.

  CHAPTER 8

  Dominic pressed as far as he could into the corner of the concrete retaining wall, listened for the 22:00 train, and shivered against the wicked cold. His breath blew in a white cloud around his face, obscuring the dark street.

  Somewhere, not too far away, someone was laughing, or perhaps singing. Was it a Christmas carol? He wasn’t well versed in carols.

  He shut his eyes for a moment and barred the cold and the isolation from reaching him.

  He had briefly visited Justine, Casey, and A67 after work. Just long enough to bring the young couple money to feed the raging appetite of an MFP built to be a high-performance machine.

  Casey had answered the door, his face wreathed with smiles.

  “Dominic, come in.” Casey shook his hand warmly.

  Behind him, Justine was wiping tears out of her eyes and holding her stomach. “Hello, Dominic. I’m sorry, I…” she pressed her hand to her mouth. Giggles squeaked out between her fingers.

  In the corner of the room, A67 gazed at him with amused blue eyes. “I still do not know what I said.”

  This prompted another fit of muffled laughter from Justine.

  “Sometimes it’s better not to ask,” Casey muttered to Dominic. “What can I do for you?”

  He felt unsettled, like he’d walked in on something that he didn’t understand. He clutched his gloves and looked down at his feet. “I-I just wanted to see how he was doing.”

  Casey turned to Sebastian, “Well, how are you doing, Sebastian?”

  “Sebastian, it is now?” Dominic asked.

  “After my late father,” Casey said.

  “I am well, Dominic,” Sebastian said. His sensitive mouth quirked into a smile. “My wound has healed well, and I am becoming accustomed to life here, and I like hunting with Casey, even if he doesn't let me shoot yet.”

  Casey and Justine glanced at each other. Hunting was technically illegal. But then, so was stealing MFPs. Dominic let it pass.

  “He has already made himself quite useful by keeping us in good spirits,” Justine said. “Come in, Dominic. You don’t need to stand by the door.”

  “I won’t stay.” Dominic wiped his boots and took a few more steps into the room, across the worn linoleum. He took in the small, scraggly evergreen in the corner—a real one, not synthetic like the one that still stood in his living room—and the box of lights and ornaments sitting before it.

  “Christmas preparations for the Christmas tree.” She looked pointedly at Sebastian.

  “Christmas tree,” he mimicked, his face remaining straight, but his eyes twinkling. “Yuletide conifer.”

  “It certainly trumps the synthetic conifer I have at home,” Dominic said.

  Casey laughed. “Ah, so are the MFP’s programed to call them conifers? He won’t quit.”

  “No, they’re just programed to be stubborn.” Dominic felt his mouth quirk into a smile.

  Casey gave him a gentle push toward the kitchen table. “Have a cup of coffee. We were just about to enjoy some Christmas coffee.”

  “Thank you.” He hadn’t eaten since lunch. The coffee was liable to hit his stomach like a brick, but it was better than nothing.

  “Justine and I have been wondering,” Casey said as he placed the steaming mug in front of Dominic. "Will you rescue more MFPs?"

  "No," Dominic said.

  Justine and Casey both froze where they were. After about five seconds, Casey relaxed and sat down in the chair across from him. “You are… were..." he frowned, "You were born an MFP. How were you raised?”

  Dominic was taken aback by this change of topic. Justine shot Casey a questioning glance and opened her mouth but a tiny shake of her husband's head made her face relax. The tension ebbed from Dominic’s gut.

  “It's a long story,” he said. It was his default response, but it was true. He breathed in the steam from the coffee mug and took a sip. It was surprisingly good—even though he could tell it wasn’t from the organic beans he was accustomed to.

  Casey just watched him, his green eyes expectant, bearded chin resting on one hand, the other on his coffee mug. Justine sat down beside her husband. He lifted his head and took her hand. Sebastian came and sat down at the foot of the table, coffee mug in one hand, slice of bread in the other.

  This reminded Dominic of how hungry he was. His metabolism wasn’t quite as high as an MFP straight from the plant, but what had been in his stomach was long, long gone. He took a deep breath. “It was winter, January, when I escaped—unbelievably cold.”

  Sebastian nodded, his blue eyes round.

  “I had worked out enough about the plant to get out, but not enough to know what to do when I got out of the facility. All I knew was that I had to get out. I ran through the field behind the plant, and eventually I reached a gravel road. A man in a car stopped and asked me if I was all right. I was so confused that he thought I had been in an accident.”

  The scene flashed in vivid detail before Dominic—his body both frozen and burning all at once, adrenaline so high he could hardly think, the old man’s kindly face turning pale as Dominic slammed him against the side of the car. He didn’t know what else to do. In his state, everyone was a threat.

  “He was a good man, good enough to see a scared young man, not an escaped fighter. He figured out, without me telling him, that I was an MFP. He took me home, warmed me up, calmed me down, and told me that I would be safe with him.” />
  “He raised you?” Sebastian asked softly.

  “Yes,” Dominic said. “For the couple years before he died." Chassagne had taken it from there. "He was a priest in the state church, so I have respect for people of faith like yourself.”

  “You are not a believer yourself?” Justine asked.

  “I don’t see how I could be,” he said. “I recognize the philosophical necessity of a God, and if there is a God, then certainly humans should pay homage to him. But I wasn’t created by God, I was created by man. I refuse to pay homage to man. According to official church policy, I have no soul to lose anyway.”

  Justine and Casey both glanced at Sebastian. “That is up for debate,” Casey said. “But go on.”

  “The priest left his estate to me—he had built me an identity, that of his nephew, and he had no close relatives. He also made arrangements with a wealthy friend, so that I might be tested for aptitude and get into one of the academies.”

  "He did that for you. Did he believe that you have a soul?"

  "No."

  Casey rubbed his chin and took a sip of his coffee. "I won't argue the point right now. So, you entered the academy, and now you work for the very company who created you."

  Dominic felt himself shrink under Casey's gaze. "I have a plan," he said, "But regardless of my feelings, it cannot contain stealing MFPs. It's too dangerous."

  Dominic returned to the present, and the cold dark of the train station. It was the eve of Christmas Eve. Good people like Casey and Justine were already celebrating and enjoying each other’s company while he stood in his damp boots and coat, hungry and solitary.

  He heard the whir of a car’s engine and stepped out from the shadow. The window rolled down and Chassange’s head poked out. “Jump in. Tell me quickly.”

  Dominic stepped back. “Money first.” Chassagne was early, and didn’t want to talk. That was a rarity, and set off alarms in his head.

  But before Chassagne could open the door, he glanced back, and made frantic motions to the driver. The engine gunned, and the car sped off.

  “What the hell?” Dominic muttered. He shoved his hands in his pockets. Something had spooked the man. At least Chassagne could have warned him so he could be on guard. “I guess I’m walking home. Damn you, Chassagne. It’s cold as hell.” Why did he keep doing this? He didn't need Chassagne's damn money anymore.