by J. Andersen
It’s uncomfortably warm, and as I cross the threshold under Micah’s arm, I inhale a whiff of his clean, woodsy scent, like the outdoors. Meanwhile, I’ve already started to sweat.
This room holds aisles of cylinders connected to the table and ceiling at either end by countless tubes. It’s still dark, but we can see each other with the help of the black lights, which make our lab coats glow an eerie purple.
Micah walks up one aisle and stops at the end. “Once the zygote grows too large for the dishes in the previous room, they’re transferred here with a Batch 2 label. It’s a delicate process that you’ll learn to perform in the later weeks of your studies. It’s even more delicate than the actual birthing process, which is why you’ll learn it last. Transferring embryos, because of their fragile state at that point in time, requires great skill. Skill I’m sure you all have since you’ve been chosen to study as Creation Specialists. Congratulations, by the way. The embryos who survive the transfer are then labeled as a Batch 3. Making it this far is a huge accomplishment. These are usually the strongest of the bunch; however, the numbers will still have to be narrowed down.”
Everyone is enthralled by Micah’s explanations. I, on the other hand, am more interested in the Petri dishes. It’s difficult to grasp that the next generation is developing right in front of us. The way he explains the process does show off his impressive brain power. To have attained his assistant teaching position, he must be pretty smart.
“If you look in the capsules to your right, you’ll see the various stages of human life. These two aisles are dated within the later weeks of the first trimester. The rows against the far wall,” he motions that way with his arm, “hold fetuses within the second trimester.”
The steady hum and pulse of the machines make it hard to hear what he’s saying, but I can tell he’s used to talking over them.
“Feel free to look around. I know you may have seen pictures of developing life throughout your studies, but seeing it first hand is pretty incredible. Whatever you do, don’t touch anything.” His lips pull back, revealing a row of glowing teeth, and his harshness disappears into the shadows. He looks happy.
Instantly, my initial fears about him subside, and I can’t stop looking at him.
When he smiled, I noticed his teeth. How the one in the front sits just ahead of the other. They aren’t straight. They aren’t perfect.
I must gasp a little too loudly because Taryn nudges me. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head. “Oh, nothing. No, it’s nothing.”
Micah backs up against the wall and watches as we slowly work our way around the lab.
Liquid flowing into the metal-capped cylinders suspended by tubes and wires distracts my suspicious mind. The darkness, the warmth, and the sound. The scientists left nothing out. Except the human host. There’s even a synthetic placenta on the bottom of the cylinder. Even the containers are made of a pliable material that can stretch when the baby stretches.
It’s astounding. To think a hundred years ago, none of this was possible.
I step up to one of the cylinders. Inside is a fetus about sixteen weeks old. A tiny thing, only about the size of my palm. Its skin is translucent so I can see the inner workings of its body, the heart pumping the blood through tiny vessels. His eyes blink, and he brings his left thumb to his mouth to suck.
“A lefty.” Micah’s heavy voice startles me.
He’s uncomfortably close. So close I feel his breath on my cheek.
“They say you can see which ones are going to be left handed by observing what hand they suck while in utero.”
“But we don’t have any left handed people here.” I look up in confusion into those glowing gray eyes. In the light, they’re lilac-colored.
Without blinking, he says, “Unfortunately, they’ll schedule this one’s discharge as soon as they notice. Then again, they usually wait until further along in development to see if these tendencies will change. So this little guy might be with us for a while longer. Good for research purposes,” he adds.
“Oh,” I say, not sure what he wants to hear.
He moves his attention from me to the rest of my classmates, who are examining and frantically scribbling notes in their compacts. We’ll be tested on what we observe during our next lab.
“Finish your observations, people. We’ll move into late development in about five minutes.”
The Third Trimester Unit is just as astonishing as the previous two. The room itself looks basically the same as the Second Trimester room, but it’s obvious the fetuses are nearly fully developed. Only, there are fewer of them. By this stage, the weak or disabled have been identified and disposed of. But there are a few who make it to the last few weeks before an elimination is decided.
I count the capsules. Forty-five. Five of these humans will be discharged soon. They’ll probably decide based on birth weight, which they can determine within the artificial womb.
Micah brings our attention to a table at the front of the room that holds a tray of silver tools. “These,” he begins, “are what the scientists used to birth the generations before our scientific advancements took over and made them obsolete. Be sure you know their names and uses by our next class.”
A boy named Johnny speaks up. “If we don’t use them anymore, why do we need to learn them?” He slaps his hand over his mouth as if immediately realizing his mistake. We may wonder these things in private, but voicing such a question can lead to disciplinary actions. No one is allowed to question The Institute.
But Micah takes this inquiry without a reprimand. “It’s part of the history of birth; therefore, we need to know and understand. Personally, I find this part the most fascinating.” His soft smile eases the boy’s anxiety, but we all wonder if Micah will turn in John for his outburst. “Now please, if you would make sure you have the instruments noted in your compacts …”
If he’s going to report John, he’s at least not doing it immediately. Perhaps Micah is more kindhearted than I first assumed.
At the same time, ten heads drop to their compacts and type or scribble in the necessary information. It won’t be difficult to memorize this information. We’re used to it. Our brains are specifically designed to take in and hold information in short periods of time. The enhancement microchips help, too. Not to mention every few years we’re brought in for upgrades to our chips. They’ll enhance our mental capabilities and make other adjustments. Some say they start to suppress any desire for the opposite sex, but that hasn’t been confirmed. Taryn thinks it’s true. “There’s no need for sex if The Institute procreates for us,” she says. But all of that is just rumor. Most upgrades deal with keeping our bodies and minds in pristine condition. I’m due for enhancements next year.
Micah continues, “This is my favorite room because it’s possible to interact with the preborn.” He moves to a table in the front corner. “Let me have your attention up here, please.”
Taryn grabs my arm and pulls me to the front of the crowd where we have a front row seat to the show and to Micah.
“He. Is. So. Cute,” Taryn whispers again. “I’d totally do him in a heartbeat!”
My eyes grow wide, but I can’t avoid the little snicker that escapes my lips. “Taryn!”
“What? We have to live while we can. Another three years and our chip enhancements will start to minimize the desire.”
I give her a look.
“You may not believe me, but look at how pathetic our parents are. They don’t even like each other. I swear it’s because they never want to have sex. It’s not like we’ll get preggers or anything.”
“Taryn!”
She laughs and steps a little closer to Micah, then looks back at me and winks as if being extra attentive will score her flirting points. “You know it’s true.” Her lips press out in a sexy pout even though he’s not paying any attention to her.
<
br /> “This fetus will be birthed at the end of the week,” he says. “Some of you will have the privilege of observing that process. But that’s not what I wanted to show you.” He steps around to the side of the table and places his hands on either side of the flexible tank. “At this age, fetuses are able to interact with the outside world. Watch. When I press against this capsule, the child will move, sometimes squirming away from my touch, sometimes kicking in response.”
He presses his hands together, one on either side of the container. Instantly, the child responds, kicking against his hand.
“Wow,” I whisper.
Micah looks at me and smiles. I smile back.
“That’s all we have time for today, ladies and gentlemen.” Micah steps down from his post next to the fetus. “Now, if everyone will please check your compacts, you’ll find a completed set of requirements to study before Wednesday.” He pulls a tiny device out of his pocket and taps the screen a few times. Instantly, everyone’s notebook beeps in response. We’ve all received his message.
***
Once everyone is packed up, we’re dismissed. It’s the perfect opportunity to head home, grab something to eat, and begin studying my notes. If I start now, I can have them completely memorized by Wednesday morning.
Taryn walks part way with me before turning off toward her house.
“Tell me he was totally hot, Kate,” she says.
“I’m not saying he’s not. But don’t you think it’s weird that he’s so different?”
“You and your pessimism. Always looking for the worst in people. Give the man a break. That’s what makes him so interesting.” She twirls a lock of her hair around her finger. It’s a habit she’s had since we were kids.
“Don’t let The Institute hear you say that.”
“I know. ‘Success and health for all.’” She rolls her eyes and pumps her fist in the air like we used to do in grade school. “I’ve heard the motto my whole life, too. But don’t you wonder what our lives would be like if we were different? I mean, more different than we are.”
“You should talk.” I point to her hair, which is glistening a bright blonde. The glow from the street lamp gilds it a shade lighter.
“You know what I mean,” she says. “Just think about our lab leader, Micah. Black hair and light eyes.”
It is unusual. People who look like Micah rarely exist in our society. I used to ask Gran why her generation decided on the specific look to give all the following generations. “If you all look the same, Katie-Did, you’ll focus on your studies instead of each other,” she told me. It’s true. When one boy looks like the next, it’s easier to pass him over, but every once in a while, there’s one like Micah. Different. Interesting. Gorgeous and not like the rest of us. And it would make us all wonder why he or she was not considered one of the Unviables. Gran explained that it was still hard to determine hair color at birth. Often it would change with time. They attempt to manipulate the genes, but since The Institute has only worked with four generations so far, they’re still perfecting their procedures. They try not to dispose of fetuses for unusual traits. Not until they have the genetics perfected. But by my children’s generation, or maybe one after, the anomalies will be eliminated. And it’ll be my job to do it.
“Yeah, it’s interesting,” I say. It’s conversations like these that make me wonder if Taryn knows a bit more than she’s leading on.
“Interesting and boring. I’d prefer to stare at specimens like Micah all day.”
“Pretty sure that’s the point of making us all look alike.”
There’s a scuffling sound behind us, and I turn to see what it is. No one’s there. Strange. I know I heard something just then.
“Here’s where we part.” Taryn switches her compact from one arm to the other. “I’ll meet you at the coffee shop before second session?”
“Sure. See you then.”
As she treks off down the path toward her house, her blonde hair flutters in the breeze. I like Taryn. Probably because we think so much alike. We both have questions about how The Institute runs things. But the thing I like the most about her is that she voices those questions. Maybe not aloud to everyone like that kid in our lab group, but at least to me. I’m glad I’m not the only one with doubts.
There it is again. That scratching sound. Like someone shuffling along behind me. Not again. I take off and cut through the park. I know I’ve promised myself I’d never go this way again, but it’s shorter, and the only thing on my mind at this moment is how fast I can get home and lock the doors behind me. Every few steps, I glance over my shoulder.
My heart speeds up, and my palms sweat when the tail of a long jacket tucks behind a tree a few feet away from me. I see a foot jutting out. Someone’s there. The man with the skeleton fingers. I wipe my hands on my pants and quicken to a jog. No need to stay and meet my demise. A few more steps and I’ll be through the park and to my street. Just a little faster. What have I done to deserve this?
One more glance over my shoulder reveals a shadow. Without a doubt, I can make out the shape of a person, legs elongated in the moonlight. The body is covered by a long coat and atop the figure’s head sits a fedora. My eyes follow the shadow to the source. This time, he doesn’t hide, stepping out from the tree so I can see as clearly as the darkened night sky will allow. He pulls his hat down over his eyes to shroud his face. He stares at me then tucks his hands in his pockets and slithers away.
I stumble backward, nearly tripping over my own feet before I turn around and gain my balance again. Heart racing, I run to my front door and fumble with the keys. My parents are both at work, so I’m home alone, but at least I’m inside. I press the door closed and flip the deadbolt lock. Then I move to the windows and make sure those are locked before drawing back the curtain enough to look out across the street.
I can’t see anyone, but the brush surrounding the opening to the park where I emerged minutes before is swaying as if someone was just standing there. There’s no one now, but the thought that someone stood there watching me enter my house sends a shiver up my spine. I close the curtain and head upstairs to my bedroom. I want to study. I need to study, but with my nerves the way they are, there’s no way I can concentrate on memorizing medical terms. No way. So instead, I lay back and stare out my bedside window into the darkness wondering who would possibly want to follow me and why.
SIX
THE BOOKS HAVE EYES
Code of Conduct and Ethics: The Institute—Sector 4, USA
Section 6 Article 4.7: Education is a top priority in any young person’s life. Free time should be devoted to studies and further learning.
“KATE, ARE YOU PLANNING on seeing Gran after your classes today? She’ll want to hear about your apprenticeship. She’ll be so proud of you. We all are.” Dad glances at me over his cup of coffee, and I know by the look in his eye he’s heard something. It’s probably not relevant to anything, but Dad and I have always shared a love for the forbidden. Any little tidbit of information we overhear gets our adrenaline pumping, and each night, while my mother is off finishing up her last minute work papers, we trade any secrets we heard throughout the day. It’s not like we don’t love The Institute. We do. But Dad and I still love to hear the little snippets that make life a little more interesting.
Mom gets up to refill her mug. “Honey, you know your grandmother will just become more confused if Kate starts telling her these things. I don’t know why you insist on sharing these sorts of things with her. It’ll make her more upset.”
“Just because she can’t fully understand everything we tell her isn’t a good excuse not to spend time with her. She’s my grandmother for goodness’ sake.”
Dad leans across the table to whisper. Normally, he doesn’t talk over a meal. Too difficult with my mother hovering around. The conversations would crisscross. “What’d you find out?” he’d w
hisper. “Well, I saw …” “Pass the potatoes, sweetie,” my mom would say. “Later,” I’d say to my dad. “No, now please,” would be my mother’s response. It would become thoroughly confusing.
The fact that he is telling me this now means it must be big.
“They caught another rebel yesterday.” He takes a bite of his toast. “Think he might be connected with the one they displayed at the parade.”
I don’t need to ask where he got this information. More than likely, he found out at the Station where he works. It’s where all the computerized data is collected and stored on huge databases. But since it’s a Justice Department issue, Dad could’ve overheard my mother during one of her confidential phone conversations. He’s pretty sly about his eavesdropping, but I worry when he tries to listen in on Mom. He could get in huge trouble. Doesn’t matter that she’s his wife. Many wives have been known to turn in husbands for lesser offenses. The rewards for revealing anyone who might be a cause for concern are much too high for anyone to pass up. I hope my mother isn’t one of those people; I believe she isn’t, but it’s hard to be sure since she never lets her guard down.
I want to tell Dad about the man in the park the other night, but Mom turns around before I have a chance. There’s no need to worry him, I guess. He’d probably accompany me to my classes, and that is an embarrassment I’m not willing to endure.
Dad straightens up as I grab a peach from the bowl on the counter and cut thin slices over my oatmeal. “Not sure if I can make it to Gran’s, Dad. I’ll try.”
“Just message if you are.” He slowly sips his coffee and takes a bite of his peanut butter toast as my mother sits down at the table beside him.
“Make sure you record your meals,” she tells both of us. This is my mother. Always doing the right thing, following all the rules. The Institute’s rules. It’s that true-to-country spirit that put her at the top of her field in the Justice Department.
