The Human Engineer

by Jessica Brody

  Rickar nodded, trying to stand up a little straighter, even though he could feel the hangover weighing him down like a sack of flour on his shoulders. “You’re welcome.”

  He turned to leave, stumbling over his own feet. He spun back around to see if anyone had noticed. Everyone had. So, for good measure, he mumbled, “So . . . um, keep up the good work.”

  He was about to turn back again when something caught his eye. He hadn’t noticed it before but behind the technicians was a row of giant screens feedcasting a close capture of the unit each tester was examining.

  The third tester from the left—a middle-aged woman with curly black hair that had been pulled away from her face by nanopins—sealed off the paneling of the womb she was working on and transferred it to the conveyor.

  “Wait a minute.” Rickar sprang forward, grabbing the unit from the belt and carrying it over to a nearby table. He cleared some clutter away and placed the womb down, bending down and pressing his nose up to the clear synthoglass surface.

  “Why is this color off?” he asked no one in particular.

  Ivvy was suddenly next to him. “Off?”

  “The uterine wall. It’s the wrong shade. It’s too dark.”

  Ivvy bent down next to him, their cheeks almost touching. “It’s the same color as all the other products.”

  Rickar shook his head. He’d worked with this synthetic tissue for years. He knew what it was supposed to look like and this was not it. “No,” he said adamantly. “It’s not.”

  The engineer chewed anxiously on the last of his fingernails as he waited for his computer to spit out the latest test results. Rickar was back in his lab on the compound. The womb he’d taken from the conveyer was sitting in pieces on the table next to him. He’d dissected it and scraped cells from the uterine lining behind the curved synthoglass surface and run multiple tests on it. All of them had come back normal. But he knew something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones.

  He took a sip of water and waited. His hangover had vanished the moment he’d rushed from the lab with the confiscated product in his arms. Or maybe, it had simply been shoved to the back corner of his mind, ready and waiting to reappear and torment him stronger than ever once he’d gotten to the bottom of this mystery.

  His computer beeped. He looked at the screen. His stomach instantly clenched. His blood pressure shot up as the results confirmed his intuition.

  The discoloration. He now knew what was causing it.

  “Connect me to Ivvy Wasser, plant manager,” he barked at the screen. “Mark the transmission request as urgent!”

  When the plant manager’s squished face appeared a moment later, Rickar wasted no time. “I can’t explain now but whatever you do, do not allow any of those wombs from the new machines to be placed on the MagTrucks. Do you understand?”

  “What?” Clearly he did not understand.

  “Shut down all production until further notice. Every machine in that plant has to be inspected. Do not allow any products to leave the warehouse.”

  There was a long, uncomfortable pause and then Ivvy said, “Sir, I’m sorry. But those units have already been shipped out.”

  The blood drained from the engineer’s face. He could see his gaunt, pale image reflected back to him in the bottom corner of the screen. “How many?” he asked, his mouth dry.

  “Three thousand, sir.”

  Despite the controlled climate inside the Owner’s Estate, sweat poured from Rickar’s face, pooling at the base of his neck. He ran his hand over his forehead and tried to stay calm as he spoke to the dark-haired woman standing across from him.

  “I don’t think you understand,” Rickar spoke slowly. “This is a matter of life and death. Three thousand deaths to be exact. I need to talk to Dr. Alixter now.”

  The woman’s patience was slipping. It wasn’t hard to see. “And I already told you I would pass along the message.”

  Rickar shook his head. “No. No messages. I need to see him in person. Those products need to be recalled immediately.”

  The woman smiled politely. “I am Dr. Alixter’s personal assistant. I can assure you that he will be made aware of the situation. Now I urge you to return to the Medical Sector and I will ping you when the president has time on his schedule to meet with you.”

  She reached for the panel to open the front door, ready to usher him out of the foyer. The engineer stuck out his hand, stopping her. He reigned in his aggravation and forced himself to smile. “What is your name?” The syrupy quality of his voice made him cringe inwardly.

  “Crest,” she said, matching his artificially sugary tone.

  “Crest,” he echoed. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say next. Was he going to try to sweet talk her? Flirt with her? The idea of him attempting to flirt with anyone almost made him chuckle despite the gravity of the situation.

  Fortunately, he didn’t have to decide what to say next because just then, the president himself, descended the stairs behind her. “What is going on?” Dr. Alixter asked politely.

  Ignoring all common decency, Rickar shoved past Crest. “Dr. Alixter,” he called desperately. “I must speak with you. It’s a very urgent matter.”

  “I’m sorry, Doctor,” Crest said helplessly behind him. “He wouldn’t leave.”

  The president flashed a smile and waved his assistant away. “It’s quite alright. Thank you, Crest. Dr. Hallix, why don’t you join me in the salon?” He gestured toward a room off of the main foyer and Rickar followed him. Once through the door, Dr. Alixter swiped at the wall panel, sealing the two men inside.

  “Would you like a drink?” the president asked, walking over to a crystal flagon and matching glasses. Rickar did a double take. Those were not synthetic. Those were made of real crystal. He was sure of it. And he couldn’t help but wonder how much they must have cost.

  The engineer declined the president’s offering with a firm shake of his head. The truth was, he was dying for a drink, but he couldn’t afford to lose his focus now. “I’m sorry, sir. There’s no time. Three thousand artificial wombs have just been shipped from the plant and you have to call them back immediately.”

  Dr. Alixter seemed to freeze for a moment before setting the flagon of dark brown liqueur back on the tray. He turned to Rickar and smiled. “And why would I do that?”

  “The new machine,” Rickar explained, trying to keep his arms from flailing as he spoke. “It’s leaking some kind of chemical into the synthetics. I noticed that the color of the uterine lining was off. I ran some tests and the toxicity level was far outside normal levels.”

  Dr. Alixter looked alarmed. But he lowered himself calmly into an armchair and gestured for Rickar to sit across from him on the sofa. He did.

  “This is quite disconcerting,” the president agreed, taking a sip from his drink. “I can see why you are so concerned. Tell me, what would be the side effects of these toxins?”

  Rickar felt himself relax somewhat.

  He believes me. This nightmare will all be over soon.

  He took a deep breath. “Well, a number of things really. But the most likely result is that the toxin will hinder the development of the fetus’ alveoli—” he paused, searching for recognition on the president’s face. “The alveoli are the terminal ends of the respiratory tree—”

  “I know what an alveolus is.”

  Rickar swallowed, admonishing himself. “Right. Well, anyway. I fear that the toxins in the uterine wall will mutate the DNA responsible for developing the lungs. When the baby is born and tries to take its first breath, the alveoli won’t inflate and the baby will suffocate. The extraction nurses would have no way of stopping it. Even a doctor wouldn’t be able to diagnosis it from outside of the womb. No one would know there was a problem until the baby was born and . . .” he paused to suck in a hitched breath. “And . . . died a few minutes later.”

  Dr. Alixter nodded, his expression grim. “That is serious. And what, in your professional opinion, is the likelihood of
this scenario?”

  The engineer stammered. “I-I-I don’t know. Ten percent. Maybe more. Maybe less. But we can’t take that risk. They have to be recalled and every machine has to be shut down and tested for the toxin.”

  Dr. Alixter seemed to disappear into his thoughts for a moment, before finally responding. “You’re absolutely right. We cannot take that risk.”

  Rickar nearly collapsed under the weight of his own relief. “Thank you, sir.”

  “No,” the president said emphatically. “Thank you, Dr. Hallix. Your keen perception and diligence might have just saved three thousand innocent lives. Not to mention the reputation of this company. Diotech owes you a great deal.”

  The engineer bowed his head humbly. “I’m just doing my job, sir.”

  The president stood up and Rickar did the same. “I’m getting on the phone to Director Polnat right now and getting this handled.”

  Rickar couldn’t help but smile as he walked toward the door.

  Dr. Alixter unsealed the exit and patted the engineer on the back. “If you need anything else, just ask Crest. She knows how to get a hold of me.”

  Rickar stepped into the foyer. A moment later, he turned back to thank the president again, but the salon door had already closed.

  “Can I order you a hovercart back to the Medical Sector?” Crest was suddenly in front of him. Her voice sounded kind and accommodating but her face betrayed her. She was still annoyed at his persistence. But he didn’t care. Lives were saved today. This woman’s displeasure was a small price to pay.

  “No, thank you,” he said quietly. “I think I’ll walk. It’s not too hot.”

  She escorted him to the door and seemed none too happy to seal it behind him.

  The engineer stepped outside into the pinkish light of the early evening. He breathed in deeply, the thin desert air suddenly smelling sweeter, the breeze tickling his skin.

  He started down the manicured walkway that led to the rest of the Residential Sector. He never even heard the footsteps behind him. He never even saw the shadow approach. The darkness came without warning.

  The memory coder was already at his terminal, readying his workspace when the unconscious subject was delivered to the adjoining room and placed in the chair. He wasn’t supposed to be on call tonight but the request had come straight from the top. It was marked urgent but he’d received very little information about the assignment.

  Internal Diotech employee.

  Security breach.

  Memory alteration requested.

  The automatic restraints activated around the man’s wrists, securing him into the chair and the coder went to work locating the subject’s nanosensor signal and linking it to his system.

  Metadata filled his screen within seconds.

  Name: Dr. Rickar Hallix

  Occupation: Biomedical Engineer

  Location: Medical Sector

  Age: 37

  Marital Status: Widowed

  The last piece of information gave the memory coder pause. He studied the unconscious man through the synthoglass wall.

  Widowed?

  But he was so young.

  The coder suddenly felt a strong desire to peek into the memories of his past—beyond whatever he’d been summoned here to do—and find the story. No doubt it would be there. The brain doesn’t like to forget. Even though sometimes the mind yearns to.

  The intelligence director appeared behind him, making him jump.

  “Director Raze,” the coder acknowledged him sharply, as though he were addressing a general in the army. He knew Raze preferred it that way.

  “Sevan,” Raze said with a nod, referring to the coder by his first name.

  “When was the breach?”

  “Dr. Alixter believes it was earlier this morning. The engineer visited one of our manufacturing plants and believes he discovered a flaw in the latest batch of artificial wombs.”

  Sevan’s hands—which had been flying over the controls, preparing for the initial download—halted abruptly. “And was there?”

  The director didn’t answer right away. “Probably not.”

  Then why are we altering his memories? the coder couldn’t help but think. He kept the question to himself, though. He was smart enough not to question the intelligence director.

  But somehow, Raze felt the need to answer anyway. “The man, unfortunately, was paranoid. And he drank. It didn’t make for a good combination. We simply can’t delay production at the whim of a delusional drunk. Especially with the demand as high as it is.”

  “How much am I taking?” he asked, initializing the memory download.

  Another long, heavy pause. It made Sevan squirm anxiously in his seat.

  “Today’s memories should be sufficient,” the director replied.

  “And the others?”

  Raze cocked his head to the side. “Others?”

  “You said he was at the plant. There’s a chance he could have shared his findings with the employees there.”

  Raze’s tongue stabbed at the inside of his cheek. “Yes,” he drawled. “I suppose you’re right. Scan the memories and report back your findings. We’ll take it from there. But as far as the engineer is concerned, he woke up this morning with a raging hangover and slept most of the day.”

  “I’m on it, sir.”

  The director turned to leave but something changed his mind. “And one more thing.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Dr. Alixter wants to do something about his drinking. He’s worthless to this company as is. See what you can do about that, hmm?”

  “I’ll try to find the root of the addiction—the darkness that’s responsible for his pain—and remove it.” Even as he said it, Sevan already had an inkling of what it would be. Widowed at age thirty-seven? That would lead anyone to drink.

  “Very good. Ping me if you run into any trouble.” Raze started toward the exit once more. This time, it was the memory coder who stopped him.

  “Sir?” Sevan knew he should keep his mouth shut. He knew it wasn’t his place to question the director’s orders. But his chest was constricting at the thought that he might find more than just paranoia and delusion inside the engineer’s head.

  “What if he’s right?” he finally brought himself to ask.

  “About what?” Raze’s voice was clipped and impatient.

  “The wombs, sir. What if there’s a faulty batch? What if—”

  “That will be all, Sidler.” The director switched from first name to last name, indicating that Sevan had definitely reached too far. Had overstepped his bounds. He bent his head and got to work, focusing on the memory files filling his screen faster than his eyes could keep up.

  He silently scolded himself for being reckless. For letting his heart speak louder than his head. This was the way it was. The way it always has been. Director Raze gives the orders and the employees follow them.

  Regardless of what he found in these files—regardless of what the engineer believed he had discovered—Sevan was determined to do his job. He wasn’t a supply chain manager. He wasn’t a product tester. He was a memory coder. And he would do what he did best.

  Erase.

  Ten months later . . .

  The engineer was in his lab when the news story came over the Feed. He was researching his newest product development, which he was only weeks away from completing. He glanced up at the screen that covered his entire wall and watched Mosima Chan’s solemn face as she delivered the details.

  “An unexpected infant death has been reported today in Boston, Massachusetts. The baby, a boy named Jessan, was gestated in a Diotech-manufactured artificial womb and died only minutes after birth from, what medical examiners are preliminarily referring to as, lung failure. The infant was rushed to a nearby hospital but emergency room doctors were unable to resuscitate him. Further investigations are being made into the cause of death and the womb itself, which the doctors believe may have been defective.”

  The Slate
the engineer was holding slipped from his fingers and clattered noisily to the floor.

  “Increase volume,” he commanded the screen.

  A woman, dressed entirely in black, with dark purple shadows under her eyes, spoke weepily to an on-site reporter. “I don’t understand. He was fine. All his levels were fine throughout the entire gestation period. The extraction nurse couldn’t . . . didn’t . . .” She broke off, unable to continue. A man—presumably her husband—appeared in the frame, wrapping his arms around her.

  The screen cut back to Mosima in the studio. “This news comes at the pinnacle of the artificial womb’s vastly growing demand. The Surgeon General’s office has issued a statement, assuring the public that they will be thoroughly investigating the womb in upcoming weeks to re-verify its safety.”

  A pain flickered in the engineer’s chest. It started as a pinpoint. A prick of fire. But within seconds it had spread like a cancer. Infecting every inch of him, until he was practically doubled over in agony.

  The ache was familiar yet foreign at the same time. It was almost as though he had been expecting this. As though he had dreamt it numerous times. An inexplicable omen that he couldn’t fathom into logic.

  His knees buckled beneath him and he gripped the sides of the table for support.

  It was his fault. It was all his fault.

  He invented that womb. He murdered that baby.

  “A spokesperson for Diotech has already denied all blame for the infant’s unexpected death,” Mosima continued.

  The image shifted again and a man Rickar recognized as the head of Diotech publicity appeared in front of a podium. “What happened today was both tragic and devastating. But I can assure you that no product leaves our warehouse without undergoing a rigorous testing procedure to guarantee quality and safety. Unfortunately, however, we have no control over what happens to the items once they leave our warehouse and are taken into the hands of Swick Worldwide, the company contracted to transport all of Diotech’s product to the marketplace.”

  The grieving mother returned. She was sobbing now. Her body convulsing. “I will find out who is responsible for this,” she said directly to the cam, directly to him. “I will find out who killed my son.”