Bottle Born Blues

by Conor H Carton

  I lost the crucial witnesses to my final act, which were utterly necessary to convince my true pursuers that I was dead and unavailable for any post death-interrogation or modifications they might have planned. With that, the only trail that could lead them to my wife and daughter would end and the two would be free. I was alive, however, and my family was in the same danger they’d always been, and now I had no idea how to rescue them.

  I pushed myself up on all fours and rested against a wall. The suit had absorbed enough of the impact to prevent broken bones and minimize bruising, but there was plenty left to make me fell sore all over. The kit wasn’t damaged, so I put it back in my pocket ready for quick release if needed. Stepping over the remains of various bodies, I went to the wet room.

  I stepped into the shower unit. Hot spray cleaned the bloody mess off the suit, which I then removed so the interior could also be cleaned. Hanging it up to dry, I then started to work on my body. Twenty minutes under a med-repair spray and bruises were reduced to ugly shades of blue and green, and I could move without pain. Slipping into the now dry suit, I entered a code on the wall opposite. A panel swung open to reveal a shadowy opening and I continued downward in utter darkness.

  Lifeforms needed to remove the organic waste they created, so they required drains—small drains that feed into bigger drains that opened into huge drains to bring that waste to processing centres like the one I was responsible for. I hadn’t used the drains to get to the space because I’d wanted to be easy to track, without appearing to be so. Leaving was a different matter. This time I wanted to escape detection and that meant taking the shit expressway out of the Celitrope Centre.

  I hit a stop and popped a light while I sorted out my Whisper Suit, and started on the long walk to Lincoln’s space. There’d be no hopping from place to place to expose me.

  The drains were very active locations, full of crews doing innumerable tasks. None saw or registered me and I simply walked for hours, deep in thought. When I reached the required intersection, I climbed a service ladder and moved along dome ducting, and dropped into a public-toilet stall. Deactivating the suit, I checked my face in the mirror, drew a deep calming breath, and headed for Lincoln’s space.

  When I got there, I rang the bell and the door was opened by a young girl who stood in the entrance with a huge toothy grin. It was my daughter Petra who I had last seen 10 years before as a small baby in Asher’s lap. I knew it was her because her eyes had not changed at all, black with flecks of gold in them. She spoke, “You have changed your hair, it is better”

  I had my hair cut just the week before, how could Petra know that? The end of the universe started with me fainting.

  15

  Sixteen years previously I was a single, gainfully employed, bottle born citizen looking for a mate and not having much success. There were a couple of structural issues to be accounted for. Natural-born and Bottle-Born didn’t form life partnerships not a legal rule, simply a fact. Social disapproval ran deep on both sides as well as more practical problems regarding children. The number of Natural/Bottle-born casual relationships between free citizens of both groups, was the biggest single proportion of the entire relationship category, ranging from instant sex encounters to relationships that lasted more than nine months and less than a year. The number that lasted longer than a year was essentially zero, if there were any no-one was admitting to i

  I was looking for a life partner within the available pool of bottle-born free citizens. I had experience with Naturals; there was a difference between us that was exotic and erotic at first, and impossible to bridge over a longer period. Within the Bottle-Born, the divisions between the base groups were as profound as between Bottle-Born and Natural. I was a FireDrake base and carried remnants of that lifeform within me. This meant I didn’t possess a natural compatibility with an Avian, Aquatic, or a StoneBeater or any of the minor sub groups.

  The third biggest private-sector industry by revenue on Mengchi was the “introduction industry”. It maintained there was a life partner for everyone. At 24 years old, with a stable job and a hunger for shared life I believed that. At 27 years old with a stable job, a hunger for shared life and three years of failure, I learned better.

  I was who I was brewed to be I could not change that no matter how hard I tried. I tried really hard. I was not ugly, had no clearly unsavory personal habits and I was looking to commit to a relationship. Everything that I should need to be successful in finding a mate. I must have read ever piece of advice ever published on finding a mate in a competitive environment and tried to follow it. The last introduction had been a final throw for me.

  “I’m so sorry, sir. Seti hasn’t indicated she’d be interested in meeting with you. I’m also sorry to say that this organization won’t be able to provide you with a compatible partner. Therefore, we’re refunding your fee and closing your account. Today.” Mrs Kenouly looked at me with sincere sympathy.

  I wasn’t surprised, but frustrated that yet another meeting arrangement service was proving a dead end. By now, I knew it was entirely useless to argue, threaten to sue, cry, beg or return a few days later and try to join again. I was back on my own, in the most difficult market in Mengchi: trying to find a life partner. With a population of 250-million assorted lifeforms, this should be easier. Surely there was a large population of lifeforms looking for life partners?

  Self-pity aside, there were great many things I could have done when I left the offices of the True and Only Meeting Services that rainy Wednesday afternoon—like stop using services intended for people who’d never find me interesting. As I left the office, I saw a very noticeable female FireDrake waiting outside. She had lush deep-red hair, that fiery red so difficult to produce. Her skin wasn’t very pale; it had a dark tone that stopped her from being the ideal FireDrake. She was seated, so it was hard to determine how tall she was. The cut of her robes showed a happy curve to breasts and long legs. Her black eyes, set above a cute small nose and smiling mouth, regarded me in return.

  She, in turn would have viewed a slim male FireDrake with dark-red hair, pale skin, sage-green eyes, a long nose and a mouth with a slight twist. I was wearing formal robes as I’d come straight from work; they showed that I didn’t have a startling physique, but I didn’t have a belly either. At two metres, I was slightly taller than the average FireDrake, which was one of the signature developments of my home farm. We nodded to each other, acknowledging each other’s review, and I left. I did have little swirls of fantasy about the female FireDrake, but then I did with pretty much anyone I’d seen in the service.

  Three days later, I got a call from an unknown number, which I answered anyway, part of my plan to be more open to the unexpected, and a female voice spoke. “Good morning Mr. Shakbout Mansard. We encountered each other a few days ago in the office of the True and Only. I was in the reception area as you were leaving, if you remember.”

  “I remember very well,” I said tentatively. This could have been a call from the accounts department, softening me up before explaining that certain deductions were non-refundable.

  “My name is Asher Arion and I was wondering if you would be free for a 45 this evening?”

  In general, introduction services had different numbered forms for different levels of introductions. Form 45 was an initial no-commitment meeting based on a profile match-up. It was a low-key, non-threatening way to start and Thingler was full of 45 Houses with tables spaced widely enough to offer privacy and enough exits to make leaving easy.

  “I’d like that a lot.” I’d done this often enough to have no expectations beyond inconsequential chat-chat. I had never been contacted directly by someone before; previously it had always been a notification from the service. I stifled the blatantly ridiculous hopes that blossomed instantly.

  “Kantilever Kitchen at 7:45?” she asked cheerfully.

  Smart. We could be done by nine and set up a second encounter with someone else that evening or head back to our respective
spaces without feeling too much time had been wasted.

  “Perfect.”

  “Perfect,” she repeated and disconnected.

  I felt better. Being called was always nice … not to mention that visions of her lovely hair had flitted past my mind’s eye several times over the past days.

  I invested effort into getting ready. Yes, this was only a 45, but the fact that the agency had provided my profile after declining me made me think (hope) that there were more possibilities than usual.

  Double-scrubbed, I sported somber clothes (no pretension), befitting someone with a stable, well-paying job. No one ever called me handsome, but my features were all in the right places, and they were naturally mine. I aimed to be diplomatically early so that she could see me and decide if she still wanted to continue—standard 45 meeting courtesy. She was at the table waiting. I was delighted. Without hesitation, I approached the table with a big smile and a hand outstretched for that vital first physical contact. It was said that 85% of all 45 meetings finished at this point; physical contact was considered a hugely reliable sign of basic compatibility (Lanken’s Tears, yes, I knew the numbers for introductions). Her touch was warm, firm and comfortable; I wanted more of it. Asher withdrew her hand without haste or delay.

  “Thanks for coming,” she said as I sat.

  “Thanks for asking me.” A slight silence followed and then I started on the second part of the introduction formalities.

  “My home farm is Asher-Brooke Consolidated 67334, these are my specifications” I laid an info cube on the table. This was crucial; the most minor variations in brewing could have significant consequences. It was always wise to establish basic compatibility before continuing.

  “My home farm is Asher-Brooke Consolidated 67375, these are my specifications.” As both our farms were in the Asher-Brooke Consolidated 673 group we were brewed under compatible conditions and protocols. First hurdle cleared successfully.

  This completed the ritual opening to a 45 and we could continue with the meeting itself.

  Asher had seen my profile, so she started sharing. She worked as a content producer on the lines in different capacities: freelance, serial contract, and regular. She stopped as a regular due to creative differences with the accounting department, had a five-month stretch on the Whirling Wheel, and currently picked up freelance work. I was suitably impressed; working on the entertainment lines was a savagely competitive marketplace. Anyone who lasted longer than it took to get a one- segment content to the public was tough … capable and accomplished.

  I, on the other hand, was a corporate culture carrier, working in the internal services department for a medium-sized industrial conglomerate that had numerous off-world interests, making sure various operations could understand the other’s requirements. It was enjoyable, hectic work, and I was waiting for a promotion to put me in Asher’s salary bracket.

  We swopped war stories without trying to outdo each other, some triumphant and some deprecating; all were laced with laughter. We hit the limit for the night and I asked if Asher had ever seen the Blowout. When she shook her head, I asked if she’d like to. She did, we paid, and left.

  We headed to the docks where my company had a warehouse and 15 docking slots. Taking transport to the docking slots, we caught a wire to a launch-view spot to view the extraordinary display of the Blowout, a ruptured disintegrating star. The vivid lights and unique dancing patterns of trapped planets was as entrancing as ever. Most Mengchi lifeforms could view the Blowout by looking up, but there was a dramatic difference from where we stood. Asher stared into the cosmic lightshow and then, suddenly, kissed me with exhilarating intensity.

  Engaging and enjoyable, the sex at my place aroused an unexpected appetite for more. Having been publicly rated as “good” on a scale that moved from “excellent” to “ecstatic”, I’d been self-consciously restrained during previous encounters. Asher was welcoming and willing to share what she liked. Delivering pleasure released me to want to do more, and relax with what I received in return. There was no reason to think it was too good to be true.

  We quickly slipped into a stable routine that had us spending more time with each other, usually overnight at my space. As we reached a three-month milestone, it was clear we were heading toward serious commitment, which would trigger payment to the introduction agency. If we established a life-partner contract, that would be another.

  Asher told me she’d look after the payment, accepting my contribution with a sultry smile. A couple days later, she explained that she’d negotiated a severance from the agency and any future “developments” were between us. That was the moment I should have asked for more details. No agency had a process for negotiating a severance; their business model was based on fees that rolled in from every stage of an introduced relationship, from the 45 Meeting through the life contract, family, and divorce. All of which I knew, and if someone had asked, I’d have told them. No one asked me and I slid right over that knowledge without a pause.

  Lying in the arms of my lover, I had what I ached for and what every Bottle-Born life ached for: family. We approached our twelve-month milestone, but Asher hadn’t given any indication she wouldn’t want to continue as a couple.

  The critical week arrived and Asher delivered a dinner invitation to a very pricey venue that took guests on a hovering trip over the city. Booking this was a positive sign, as was the fact that Asher was wearing the jewelry I’d bought her (two bracelets and a necklace, artisan-crafted). The appetizers were excellent, something to nibble until we got a cleared table, wine, and the main course. The advantage with the invitation was that it was your event; you got to speak first and could take as long as you wanted.

  Asher talked about the project she was working on, an advertising string for a well established brand developing into a small war. She wasn’t bothered by the conflict; it was just part of the industry, but no one did it well. They bickered frequently and no one strove to carve a niche for themselves. The fighting served no purpose; it was just part of the process.

  “I have goals, some achieved and some still waiting to be achieved. One of my major goals is to form a family and belong to a group that’s more than a network. I want partnership and depth, trouble and joy … waking up feeling okay and having someone think that that’s fine. Not that this means energy has leaked and it’s time to move on.” Asher took a slow, deep breath as she scanned the room. “I don’t know if I could tolerate living with the same person for a lifetime. The prospect seems reductive. How can I be creative if I’m always contained in the same, hmm, environment?”

  She forked food into her mouth while I pondered whether she was inviting me to stay or go. Then she waved her fork, which I correctly assumed meant she had more to say.

  “Naturals have families … and are so damn snotty about them. They wave them in everyone’s faces, as if we should celebrate the perfectly ordinary. There’s nothing extraordinary about family and nothing extraordinary about not having families, either. It’s a choice, not an imperative.”

  Asher paused for more fork waving while I stared at her in desperation. I had no idea what she was talking about, but the way she was saying it made me think I should know. The dreaded fork stopped and pointed directly at me. ”Do you know what I hate? That bag of Ihagr spit, Ripple, who sits in meetings and talks about her perfect family, which makes her perfect. It’s merely rag to clean up her messes. Ripple with the perfect family … while the rest of us eat her shit.”

  She’d not had a lot to drink, but she was getting angry and I had no idea what to say or do.

  She placed a hand lightly over mine. “So, what do you have to say?”

  I wished she’d stabbed me with the fork, but honesty was everything or something like that. “I want a family and I want it with you. I’ve no idea if it’ll be perfect or if you’ll realize that I’m not what you want. I want you and me … and more than you and me.” Not what I’d rehearsed. The words simply gushed forth.

/>   Asher smiled fleetingly and kissed my hand. (Discreetly placed watchers noted this and nodded in satisfaction that all was progressing nicely.)

  We had eighteen months to discover that living intimately with each other was hard work. Boundaries melted and reformed, and endless negotiation started and ended. The road to the end of everything began when Asher announced, “I want us to have a baby”.

  16

  Bottle-born life forms had children all the time with genetic material from both parents, so they were both biological and legal parents. The process used to create the child was one of the fundamental barriers between Naturals and Bottle-Borns. We sported the differences in the way we described ourselves—and those differences stood at the root of our existence.

  There was zero appetite to eradicate the differences vital to identity. Any bottle-born free citizen had the biology to have natural childbirth; there was no legal constraint on any natural lifeform from brewing a child. It wasn’t done because we’d been created by alien hands as part of an industrial process. Creating a child was a way of domesticating and owning said process.

  When Asher said she wanted a baby, it became clear that she was talking about the natural process, becoming pregnant and having a live birth. After the shock subsided, I was furious, confused, upset, horrified … and speculative. She never raised the topic a second time. I didn’t raise the topic myself for fear of what I might say that I couldn’t unsay.

  As the storm diminished, I found myself more and more in the grip of one single emotion: fear. I was afraid that a natural child wouldn’t love me, be embarrassed, or feel distant from a creature so different from them. Could our shared life experiences be meaningful, given our radically different roots? Would I be a traitor to all other Bottle-Borns, turning my back on them in a most insulting fashion?