by K. F. Breene
“Okay, we’re about ready to see if the baby will take to the breast. Let’s all cross our fingers.” Ms. Hutchins’s throat clearing had Trent closing his mouth with a snap. He was getting too chatty. Excitement had a way of doing that to him.
The crying baby, its face screwed up in anger, was placed into Ms. Foster’s waiting arms. The baby settled almost immediately and nuzzled into her skin to look for a food source. A nurse stepped forward to help.
“That was a fast bond,” Mr. White said, stepping closer, his focus acute.
“Not abnormal. Some are faster than others. And . . . there! She’s latched.” Trent smiled and made a note. “Excellent. So far, so good.”
“This one is a girl?” Mr. White asked, watching the interaction.
“Yes. A healthy baby girl, by the looks of things.”
“How long does the baby stay with the female creator?” someone asked.
Trent glanced back in irritation. He didn’t understand why novices were allowed into the viewings. They probably had no idea what they were even looking at.
Huffing, he made a few notes as he answered, “That is dependent on the baby. We want them breast fed for up to a year, if possible. Infants feed regularly, so the moth—female creator will need to be on hand fairly constantly. After that, we try to naturally separate the child and introduce them to the milestone-assessment department where they will be raised. Some breast-fed babies take longer than others to separate. Up until about two years, we indulge the child.”
“Remind me how long will it take to see results of your experiment?” Mr. White said.
If he’d bothered to read any of the reports . . . “It’s hard to say,” Trent answered, schooling his tone to one of patience. “I would imagine about fourteen months, give or take, since these children will undoubtedly be above the Curve in many categories.”
“Excellent. Great work, people.” Mr. White took one last look before turning toward the door. “Let’s look toward the future.”
“Mr. White, I’d like a word,” Ms. Hutchins said. “Mr. McAllister, with me.”
“Uh . . .” Trent looked back at Ms. Foster cuddling the baby. He hated to miss this part. It was so serene. It always warmed his heart. “Yes, ma’am.”
Outside in the hall, Ms. Hutchins directed Mr. White to the side. “I think it’s time to let Mr. Gunner and the other specialized security staff return to their routine duties.”
Mr. White’s brow furrowed. “Some of the others, okay. But we might want Ms. Foster for another pregnancy. Despite the longer delivery and the many confrontations with her regarding exercise within the assisted living area, Ms. Foster handled it well. This will make her a larger target. Gregon Corp. has been chomping at the bit lately. We get offers to buy her out constantly. I want her protected, and for that I’d prefer an expert. Either Mr. Gunner or Mr. Hunt—one of the directors.”
Ms. Hutchins looked at Trent.
Trent started. He’d made this comment in passing—he had no idea he’d be called on to share it with the formidable director.
After clearing his throat, he said, “With creations like Mr. Gunner and Mr. Hunt, we must consider the issue of their protection characteristic.”
“I don’t understand,” Mr. White said in irritation, checking the red numbers on his wrist.
“Mr. Gunner is three clicks above, Mr. Hunt two,” Trent went on. “They were bred with the unyielding urge to protect at all costs. Currently they are geared toward protecting the conglomerate. You can see how that works in our favor. But should they connect with something else that calls on this drive of theirs, their loyalty will shift hard and fast. Their breeding will take on a whole new dimension.”
“I’m not following.” Mr. White itched his nose with his middle finger. “We’ve always had guards on these women. After birth, we regularly have defensive managers around the female creators. One or two developed an attachment to the infants, like the female creators sometimes do, but it was easily worked around. What’s the difference?”
“The difference is the level of the asset,” Ms. Hutchins said. She looked at Trent again.
“Uh, yes, ma’am.” Trent wiped away a drop of sweat from his brow. “We often use characteristics of the natural-born, higher-level staffers, but we keep them away from the actual offspring. It’s safer that way. Their natural urge to protect in general, paired with the biological imperative to protect their descendants in particular, would create more than a mere headache. I’d presume such a staffer would stop at nothing to cause havoc. And given their training, that’s exactly what they could cause.” Trent couldn’t help a smile as his toes tingled. “It would be a sight, though. Truly spectacular if I had to guess. Usually they are behind the action, so they can’t display their awesome ability in the heat of combat, but to be a part of—” Ms. Hutchins’s throat clearing ended with the sound of Trent’s teeth snapping shut.
“I see.” Mr. White looked at his feet for a moment. “And these assets are represented in this breeding cycle?”
“Just one . . .” Trent looked around for the nearest console, wishing he had clearance to access that type of information from his implant. He’d studied both men extensively for this project, but he tended to get them mixed up.
“One was too volatile,” Ms. Hutchins said, looking at her wrist. Stats whirled by and slowed. “He is a handful to control, so we worried about a natural offspring. We use his genes in the splicing lab for factory assets. Even still . . .” Her wrist went back to skin color. “The breeder won’t know it is his offspring, and he won’t have contact. However, we’re flirting with danger here. A human connection might be formed from something as simple as seeing mother and baby. That in itself could promote a biological response. These men are hardwired to protect, whether they know it or not. That is the danger of natural breeding. We cannot control everything.”
“Yes, I see.” Mr. White stared off to the side. “Keep them in the area,” he finally said. “Keep Mr. Gunner working on San Francisco, and Mr. Hunt on the ground, wall, and travel-way systems. I will not sacrifice the improved structure. We once again dominate this area. We’ve blocked Gregon Corp.’s attempt to weasel in. The board is pleased. Once those systems are stable, you can start phasing the men out.
“With regards to the breeding, simply keep them out of the infant holding areas. Don’t let them see the infants. I’ve heard the female creators aren’t interested in coitus, nor will they look like their former selves right away—I doubt either man will be tempted to form a connection along those lines if it hasn’t happened already . . .” Mr. White raised an eyebrow.
Ms. Hutchins checked her wrist. “The two female creators assigned to Mr. Hunt and Mr. Gunner, respectively, have been on the Clarity pill. There have been no sexual relationships between them.”
“There. See? Crisis averted. Now—”
“It’s not a sexual connection we are worried about, sir,” Trent hastened to say.
Mr. White’s hard brown eyes stared him down. “Men react to sex and their children. Give them neither, and they will find interest elsewhere. Do I make myself clear?”
Trent shriveled under the stare, not willing to offer his arguments regarding the inaccuracy of that statement. It was telling as to Mr. White’s character and lack of imagination. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
“Now. Make sure those babies are healthy, and let’s push evolution along.” Mr. White stalked off. Without a word, Ms. Hutchins went in the opposite direction, leaving Trent to stand alone.
Mumbling to himself, because he hadn’t realized he’d be thrust between two higher-level staffers when he proposed his compound, he let himself into the viewing room. Everyone had cleared out, not interested in the sleeping mother and baby.
With a small smile, Trent looked on for a moment before he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Jumping and clutching his hands to his chest in a useless defense, he turned toward the large silent man in the back of the room.
>
Mr. Gunner lowered his wrist, where soft-green numbers had been displayed.
“Oh. Um . . .” Trent gulped. This was really the opposite of the directive he’d just received. “You’re . . . You should go about your duties.”
In a deep voice that did strange things to Trent’s flight reflex, the muscular man said, “That woman in this room is my duty. I am to maintain her safety until she is transferred to a more secure location.”
“Uh . . . right.” Trent scratched his chest, unable or unwilling—he wasn’t sure which—to lower his hands and expose his vitals. “Well . . . maybe just wait outside.”
“No.”
“That’s . . .” Trent slowly sidestepped to the console. “Mr. White told me to tell you that.”
“Mr. White has no bearing on my decision-making.”
“Well . . . that’s true.” Trent typed in a quick help message. He didn’t like being in a small dark room with someone like Mr. Gunner. The man’s records indicated that he had tested every rule the conglomerate had, constantly pushing against conformity. When lower-level staffers were sent to issue warnings against such behavior, they then had to be carried to the med tech with a broken nose or jaw.
Mr. Gunner clearly knew it would be too expensive for the conglomerate to fire him for trivial rule-breaking—like the messy man-bun piled on top of his head. He also knew they wouldn’t go to the trouble of mind wiping him and paying to have him trained again. After all, the problem was one of breeding, not schooling. He’d just push against authority all over again. It was only the large infractions that would demand immediate recourse that Mr. Gunner shied away from. He was arguably the best at what he did, and he knew it. The only other person who could argue with that accreditation, and often did, was Mr. Hunt. Another man who equally fascinated and terrified Trent, but one who didn’t break the rules quite as often.
Trent sighed and went about his stats, ignoring the imposing presence behind him as best he could until someone came to remove him. It was all he could do.
“Here you go, miss.”
Millicent blinked her puffy eyes open in time to see the lab staffer hand her the crying baby. The baby’s little fists waved angrily, and her squalls pushed Millicent’s panic button.
“Is she okay? What’s the matter?” Millicent sat forward and winced, her lower half painfully sore. She brought the baby close to her chest and felt a warm fuzziness flower in her middle. The little creature nuzzled into her, and the crying stopped immediately.
“She’s hungry. Or else she wants her . . . you.” The lab staffer grimaced. “I’ll leave her with you for a while. Babies like to be held and cuddled, and this one cries when we try to do it.”
“But I don’t know . . .” Silence rained down as the door closed behind the exiting lab staffer, leaving Millicent with the fragile little thing. She adjusted herself, and winced. Then tried to get her top open. Then adjusted the baby, and winced.
“You’re doing it wrong.”
Millicent jumped at the deep drum of the voice, startling the baby. Crying filled the room before she pulled the baby into her chest, completely ruining everything she’d done to get the baby situated in the first place. Huffing, she glanced up at Mr. Gunner. “Can you get the lab tech? I don’t know how to hold her to get her to feed.”
“They’ve told you three times.” He crossed to the bed and leaned over for the infant.
She shrank back, stopping his progress. “Are you allowed to hold her?”
“Millicent, I’ll be gentle. I’m just going to arrange her how the lab tech always does.”
“Always . . . It was only a few times . . .,” Millicent muttered as she straightened up with another wince.
“And you need more pain meds.” His fingers wrapped around the baby, his giant, rough-looking hands such a contrast to the soft little body. Instead of pausing in midair so Millicent could adjust and take her back, his arms kept going until the baby was snuggled against his chest. He wrapped a large arm around her and was rewarded with tiny fingers curling onto his index finger. A small smile graced his lips. “She’s so small. So . . . defenseless.” He rocked her and bounced in that special way, obviously having watched everything the lab techs had done over the last day.
The baby girl nuzzled into his chest, looking for a nipple.
“You probably shouldn’t be—”
Three people burst into the room, cutting Millicent off. Mr. Gunner jerked, shielding the infant with his shoulder and broad back. Fire sparked in his eyes, a killing edge Millicent had never seen before. The staffers fanned out, hands up, eyes wide.
“Hey now, Mr. Gunner. That’s not your job.” One of the staffers stepped forward slowly. “That baby is very fragile. And very expensive.”
“Why don’t you just hand her off to us, sir. We’ll take over,” another tech said.
“He was trying to help me.” Millicent held up her hands to symbolically stop them. Pain pulsed up through her as she shifted. “The lab tech left me without helping to position the baby to latch. If you were worried about the baby’s safety, one of you should’ve helped me feed her . . .”
Two of the techs turned her way, eyes still wide, but for a different reason. She was above their pay grade. They were trained to listen to voices using tones just like hers.
“Now take the baby from him and help me. Unless you’d like me to report your negligence to your superior?” She waited with hard eyes.
“I got it,” Mr. Gunner said, straightening up. “I’m strong, not stupid. I know how to handle a fragile . . . item.”
“Well, now, I’d be happier if you’d just let me . . .” The lab tech’s voice drifted away as Mr. Gunner walked toward them with straight, wide shoulders and a vicious sort of grace. He was both formidable and nurturing, holding the squirming baby to his chest while it continued to hunt for his nipple.
A lab tech backed away quickly as Mr. Gunner rounded the bed, then bent over Millicent. With delicate hands, he placed the baby across her chest, pausing for her to painfully shift again before helping her position the head for feeding.
The door opened again and stayed that way. A sizable man, nearly Mr. Gunner’s height and also stacked with muscle, entered the room with slow, powerful strides. His smooth glide bespoke a predator patrolling his territory.
Mr. Gunner tensed, waiting for Millicent to comfortably settle with the infant before straightening nearly as slowly as the other man was entering the room. Mr. Gunner’s muscles rippled dramatically as he turned toward the newcomer. The same muscle display shivered up the newcomer’s frame.
“Mr. Hunt,” Mr. Gunner said in a voice laced with a sharp edge.
“Mr. Gunner.” Mr. Hunt squared his shoulders. The lab techs scurried out of the way. “I’ve been alerted to a breach of security in this room. Seems you’ve overstepped your duties.”
“I was helping my charge.”
“She is no longer your charge. I’ll be taking over.”
“On whose authority?”
“This is no place for a territory battle,” one of the lab techs said in a wavering voice.
The baby started to squirm.
Millicent lost her patience. “What the hell is going on?” she roared. Both men frowned. Uncertainty worked tension into their shoulders. “I’m sitting here, in pain, half-naked, trying to feed a small human with my body. I’ve got enough going on. Do not make your problems my problems. Get out of here!”
Mr. Hunt’s eyes widened minimally. His eyes flicked in her direction. Neither man moved.
“Are you deaf?” Millicent pushed. “Get your asses out of here. I’ve had enough.”
A smile curled Mr. Gunner’s lips as Mr. Hunt frowned harder.
“If you think you can handle her,” Mr. Gunner said as he sauntered from the room. The door shut with a loud clang.
“Yes, there is a lot of commotion—”
“You, too,” Millicent said, cutting off the lab tech. “Get out. Send in my normal sta
ffer.”
“Um. Yes, Miss Foster. Sorry, miss. But if Mr. Hunt would—”
“I’m gone,” Mr. Hunt said in a scratchy voice. “Our orders are to stay out of the infant facilities.” He glanced at Millicent before he walked from the room.
“Oh goodie, another prickly ego to navigate.” Millicent leaned back before situating the baby a little better. Sighing in contentment, Millicent rubbed her thumb across the baby’s tiny arm. A feeling unlike any she’d ever experienced saturated her chest and gripped her heart, and her arms constricted. Mine.
Chapter 7
Her first day physically back at her department, six months after the birth, Millicent found herself walking out of the craft with a saggy stomach, giant breasts, and an out-of-shape body. She blamed Mr. Gunner for some of this, of course. Had she been allowed to maintain a more rigorous exercise schedule prior to the birth, she wouldn’t be in such bad shape.
The baby was growing perfectly, at average height and weight for infants her age. What had surprised the techs was her development. She was way ahead of not only the Curve, but all the other babies in her group. Chances were the others would catch up, but the overall vibe was that Millicent’s baby was the best of the bunch.
To this, Millicent replied, “Of course she is. What else would I produce?” It was usually enough to stop the constant praise that interrupted her time with her child.
Millicent smiled to herself as the bay doors closed behind her and a beautiful day welcomed her, leading up to the grand entrance of the department. A few people passed, either headed to another department or just enjoying the computer-generated scenic walk.
A movement caught Millicent’s eye. Mr. Gunner stood against the wall off to the right. His gaze landed on her for a moment before darting away.
She stared straight ahead and started walking. He hadn’t been allowed anywhere near her or the other infants since the day he’d handled the baby. In fact, none of the guards were allowed near them. Mr. Hunt stalked the perimeter of the infant ward and then ensured she was protected from one secure location to the next, but other than that, he was a ghost. She had no dealings with him.
