The Seeds of New Earth

by Mark R. Healy

  Before us, the central lab enclosure – a rectangle of steel and blue glass – was positioned at the head of a row of ungainly looking contraptions known as ‘a-wombs’. They rose out of the floor, their bases curving sumptuously like sunflower stems to just above waist height, supporting an intricate mesh of components at their crown. Held in place by four segmented arms, the guts of the a-wombs were comprised of a network of transparent tubes, a fibrous black netting, and, jutting from the forward section, translucent sacs that resembled limp, thick-skinned balloons. There were ten in all, empty and inert, awaiting the insertion of their precious payload.

  “You said you altered how many embryos? Twenty?”

  “Twenty-two,” she corrected.

  I tugged at my white cleanroom suit, adjusting it to a more comfortable position, and stepped closer to the nearest a-womb. Arsha moved behind me and activated a bank of white LEDs she’d affixed to the wall. These were used in place of the ceiling lights, which drew far more power from the battery reserves than we could spare. The LEDs did a decent enough job of lighting the room, casting a dull sheen across the a-womb sacs and shedding sufficient light for us to go about our work.

  “So that still leaves twenty-six that haven’t been engineered.”

  “Yes.” She crossed her arms. “There’s plenty for you to choose from that are untouched.”

  “You should have told me about this. You should have at least consulted with me first.”

  “That would have been difficult,” she said drily, “since I made the alterations two years ago. You were still out in the desert running from Marauders back then.”

  I shifted uncomfortably at the thought. That time I’d spent in the desert was like a blur: hiding, fleeing, sometimes killing to stay alive. I thought of Wraith and the other Marauders coming after me, and how they’d almost taken me down many times. Somehow I’d avoided them and fought them off, eventually making it back home.

  “Two years?” I said. “You started this process early, then.”

  She walked along the line of a-wombs, scrutinising each one in turn. “Yes. There was a time when I considered going ahead with thawing and implantation, but then realised I wasn’t ready. I was getting ahead of myself. In the end I got cold feet and shelved the idea. I hadn’t told you about it before because… well, I didn’t think you’d react well to it.”

  I grunted, infuriated. “You got that right.”

  “Well, don’t get all worked up over it. I had every right to do what I did.”

  “The bioengineering was irresponsible, Arsha. If this doesn’t turn out the way you hope, you’ve wasted half of the samples.”

  “Let’s wait for the results before we jump to conclusions, huh, Brant?” She gave me a disdainful look as she stalked past. “Now let’s get to work.”

  “Wait a minute. Before we rush into this, can we go over the procedure so there’s no confusion? I want both of us to be clear about what we’re doing. It’s been a long time.”

  “Yeah, okay. By the end of today we want the embryos inserted into the a-wombs. That’s our goal. Hopefully in the coming days they implant and begin growing as they would in a natural pregnancy. The first step is to activate the a-wombs, get them running again. At the moment their interiors are sterile and empty, so we have to initiate the secretion of the endometrium – the sticky lining of the womb. That will allow the embryos to implant.”

  “Right, then we blend the amniotic fluid and pump that into the a-womb membranes, ready for secretion.”

  “Correct. Following that, we just need to place the frozen embryos into their thawing tubes, leave them some time to warm up, and then insert them into the a-wombs.”

  “And that’s it for today?”

  “That should do it, yeah. Easy, huh?”

  I rolled my eyes and pointed up at the bank of LEDs. “We need to keep an eye on the juice, make sure these lights don’t drain our reserves.”

  “We’re still getting a good charge through to the cell bank from the roof. We can run it for eight or ten hours a day, no problem.”

  She tilted the touch panel that was attached to the first a-womb and began adjusting parameters with her fingertips.

  “Let’s get these fired up,” she said.

  I followed her lead and began stepping through the same procedure on the a-womb next to her, labelled “Two.” The tech still looked in great condition – unlike the rest of the world outside, there was no dust or sunlight filtering through to the inner lab, and the plastic bezels around the screens looked as though they’d just rolled off the factory floor. The screens themselves were unmarked and responsive to the slightest touch of the finger. It almost felt like a little slice of the old world had been transplanted into this new one.

  One by one we went down the line, and between the two of us we soon had the first six a-wombs running through their initiation procedures. There was no visible change occurring in those translucent bladders, but at a microscopic level, tiny sensors were testing skin integrity, temperature, hormone levels and a number of other parameters within the microcosms of the a-wombs.

  “Shit,” Arsha said suddenly. “The touch panel on six just died.” She tapped her fingertip on it repeatedly with no success.

  “Try a reboot,” I said.

  “Yeah.” She pressed a button on the underside of the display and held it there for a few moments as I moved over to have a look. The touch panel began to glow softly again as it re-initiated, but then it winked out again.

  “Nope,” I said. “That’s toast.”

  “Dammit,” Arsha muttered. “This gear is supposed to be state-of-the-art. Nothing but premium components.”

  “Well, it has been decades. Even top of the line stuff isn’t one hundred percent.”

  “Yeah.” Unable to keep the disappointment out of her voice, she reached across to the next a-womb along the line and began the boot sequence. “Let’s hope this one works.”

  I counted along the line of active units. “You’re adamant about implanting six, aren’t you,” I said, resigned.

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “Well, I’m only doing two,” I said firmly. “Unengineered.”

  She shrugged. “Then I’ll do four of the engineered ones.”

  I shook my head slowly. “I can’t help you when raising these children becomes too difficult, Arsha. If it becomes too much work for you, you’re going to have to come up with some answers. I don’t want to sound harsh, but that’s the reality. I think you’re reaching too far.”

  She ceased her fiddling with the a-womb and looked at me. “I know what I’m doing, Brant. Don’t you think I’ve assessed this and planned it all out? I’ve considered all the options pretty damn thoroughly, and this is what I believe to be our best chance. I’m sorry if that doesn’t coincide with what you think is reasonable. We’re just going to have to differ on this.” Returning her attention to the touch panel, she said, “Why don’t you get started on the amniotic solution?”

  I was about to continue the argument before deciding better of it. Everything from her posture to the set of her mouth told me she wasn’t going to budge on this issue. There was no chance that she was going to change her mind. Instead of trying to reason with her, I just made a hard line with my mouth and conceded with a little twitch of my eyebrows.

  “Sure.”

  The unit that distributed amniotic fluid to the a-wombs was located at the beginning of the row, an inauspicious beige box with a gridwork of blue and red buttons across its inwardly sloping front face. From the rear, transparent tubes snaked out and into a conduit in the floor that fed along to the a-wombs. It was a slightly older generation of tech, but reliable, the design having been tried and tested over the years, a staple of most biotech labs before the Winter.

  Consulting a chart that was fixed to the side of the pump with a silver chain, I began manipulating quantities of water and electrolytes via the buttons, verifying the amounts on a digital interface at the top. Arsh
a moved back along the line of a-wombs, casting an appraising eye across each in turn.

  “Looking good,” she remarked. “These two have already reached thirty-seven degrees Celsius. No sign of perforations in the lining.”

  “Promising,” I agreed.

  She gestured to numbers three and four. “The next two are almost there as well. I’m going to begin secretion of the endometrium.”

  Without waiting for approval she punched in the commands, her fingers dancing across the touch panels with crisp, efficient jabs. Then, upon completing the final command, she stood back to stare intently as the process began, her arms folded across her chest, drumming her fingertips on her elbows. I couldn’t decide if there was a hint of edginess peeking through her usually calm exterior. Most likely there was, if she was feeling anything remotely like I was. My nerves were raw, straining at the edges of my skin as if they might burst out at any second and flee in a mad, uncontrollable flight. It was a battle to maintain some modicum of control, not only to keep focussed on the task at hand, but also to hide my agitation from Arsha.

  If she was feeling any of this herself, she was doing a damn good job of hiding it. The minutes went by and she barely moved. Positioned at the edge of the lab, falling just outside the arc of the LEDs, she was like a bird of prey perched in the shadows, waiting for her moment to strike. Only the motion of her eyes flicking from one a-womb to the next differentiated her from a statue.

  “How’s it look?” I said finally.

  “Its bladder walls are coming in a little thin,” she replied, not sounding overly concerned. “I’m going to increase the levels of oestrogen and progesterone and see if we can get it to take on a little more density. Otherwise the embryos may not be able to implant.”

  She attended to each of the a-wombs in turn, making the appropriate adjustments with concise, assured movements. Very slowly a tinge of pinkish-red began to coagulate on their inner walls, faint at first but growing darker by the minute.

  “Here it comes,” I said, bending in low to analyse the progress. I nudged gently at the bladder-like sac of the nearest a-womb, turning it this way and that, then moved my attention to its touch panel. “Number two is already at nine point seven millimetres, and number one is nine point three.”

  “That’s more like it,” Arsha said, pleased. “We’re almost at the optimal level for implantation. What’s the temp like on those?”

  “Thirty-seven degrees flat. One at thirty-six point nine.”

  “Good.”

  One after another, the a-wombs took on a rich sanguine hue as the endometrial tissue was secreted from their internal lining. Arsha and I hovered over the touch panels, double- and triple-checking that all parameters were in the desired ranges. She fussed over number four the longest, tapping and scrolling continually through the readout, and eventually making an annoyed sound deep in her throat.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “Four is having issues with thickness,” she said, using her fingers to rotate through a visual representation of the a-womb on the touch panel. It was like a glowing blue orb covered in lime green splotches with white edges. “In places it’s only three millimetres thick. Less than that, even.”

  “Faulty?”

  “Mmm, maybe,” she said, frowning as she concentrated. “Or it could just be that it needs recalibration, or some of the pores are gunked up. I’ll abort and run it through again.”

  She went ahead and initiated the abort procedure on the touch panel. The a-womb began to part at its lower extremity, a thin slit opening up like a lipless mouth, poised above a tray that was designed to carry fluid back into the system for recycling. Arsha wasted no time in heading to the next dormant a-womb to begin its boot sequence.

  “We’ll get this one fired up while we’re waiting,” she said.

  “Yeah, okay.” I strolled back along the line, checking the statistics on the touch panels yet again, even though I knew they were all correct. I expelled a nervous breath, in some ways wishing that we could skip past the uncertainty of these early stages.

  “You okay?” Arsha called out.

  “Yeah. I, uh… I guess I’m just a little anxious.” I shot her a look. “Aren’t you?”

  She continued to tap away without turning to look at me. “Not really. We’ve made the preparations. Everything looks good so far. We’ll be fine.”

  Not for the first time I wished that I could harness some of that indomitable self-assurance she possessed.

  “I’m sure we will,” I said, but my voice lacked the same conviction.

  Number four, the aborted a-womb, was beginning to drip crimson fluid, the colour draining from the sac as it sluiced out of the slit. It was like watching a red jellyfish bleed to death, I thought oddly, and on the whole it wasn’t an entirely pleasant experience. I knew that it wasn’t a living thing that was dying, but it evoked powerful recollections of people I’d seen shot and blasted to bits in the White Summer, lying there in agony and bleeding out while I stood by, powerless to prevent their demise. I could still hear their voices, see the blood squirting between my fingers as I tried to apply pressure to their wounds. In the chaos there had been no one to help – hospitals had been overrun or destroyed, emergency response units abandoned. Every man for himself. The end of society.

  After a few moments I turned away and busied myself at some unnecessary task, occupying myself by any means possible so that I didn’t have to stand there and watch the blood, the reminder of those bleak times.

  Within a few minutes there was a soft beep. The a-womb had resumed its initial translucent white appearance, the touch panel indicating that the procedure was complete. Reluctantly, I moved over to it. There was still burgundy-coloured fluid dribbling away in the drain below, like deep arterial blood. I tried to ignore it, bringing up the diagnostics on the touch panel and setting the routine in motion to try to determine the cause of the fault.

  “These diags are going to take almost twenty-four hours,” I cautioned, carefully watching the progress meter.

  “Doesn’t matter, number eight is looking good,” Arsha said. “We’ll use it instead.” She spun on her heel and headed over toward the cryotank positioned at the front of the lab enclosure. “I think we’re ready.” She gave me a grin. “Let’s get these little guys on their way.”

  She knelt before the bulk of the cyrotank, a long, sleek cylindrical thing of black metal with a single argent stripe along one side, and began keying in digits on the control panel, which caused a sliver of the casing to pop out. From this fissure, wisps of steam emanated where chemicals from the colder interior sublimated in the relatively warm air of the lab. With a pair of laboratory tongs Arsha gripped the protruding piece and lifted it delicately into the lab enclosure above, easing it into a transparent tube that provided a controlled environment in which the specimen could thaw. The tube filled with vapour, appearing for a moment like a cylinder of pure smoke, and then it became clear.

  “One down,” Arsha said.

  “We’re on our way,” I breathed, edgy.

  “Yep, won’t be long now. Let’s initiate the fluid insertion for the a-wombs.”

  Obediently, I returned to the pump that regulated the amniotic fluid and double-checked the settings I had keyed in previously. Satisfied, I then set it to distribute small quantities of liquid to the a-womb membranes. The insides of the tubes that snaked away from the unit bubbled and swirled as the fluid spurted through, and with that the procedure was underway. Walking along past the a-wombs I could see the amniotic fluid begin to dribble into the thin walls of the sacs, and the touch panels began to populate with new data as sensors detected the ingress.

  “Looking good here,” I called out.

  “All right, I’ve got two of the bioengineered embryos thawing now, which leaves me two to go.” She craned her neck around the side of the enclosure. “Are you sure you want only two of the others prepped?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  I moved back
to watch Arsha manipulate the remaining embryos, her hands making careful and deliberate motions as she transitioned the slivers from the cryotank to the thawing tubes. After completing the sixth and final sample, she returned the tongs to the rack and gave her neck a rub, grimacing as she rotated her head to loosen up the muscles.

  “Are you all done over there?” she said.

  “Yeah, it looks good.”

  “Then we have about half an hour to wait.” She looked about for another task to which she could attend but, finding nothing, shrugged her shoulders. “Let’s take a break,” she suggested.

  We stretched our legs down in the secluded alleyway that ran alongside the building. Arsha stood with her back to the brickwork, her legs angled out in front of her casually as she idly twirled a lock of hair around her finger.

  She noticed me pacing nervously and said, “Stay strong, huh?”

  “Easy for you to say. I don’t know how you do it.”

  She glanced along the alley, then stared off into the distance thoughtfully.

  “Did you ever see the guys who used to come out here to smoke?” Arsha said. “Back before the Summer.”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Remember one in particular? Dark hair, dark circles under his eyes. Greyish skin.”

  “Creepy guy?” I said. “Used to narrow his eyes and just stare whenever people walked past. Wore a suit that was like… two sizes too big.”

  “Yeah, that’s him.”

  “Sure, I remember. What about him?”

  “Did he ever talk to you?”

  I pursed my lips. “Hmm. Nope, don’t think so. You?”

  “Yeah, once. He called me over one day when I was collecting a delivery, said he needed to talk to me. He was standing here with a bunch of his cronies. Voice like a snake.”

  “And?”

  “They all stood in a circle, made me push my way through.” She looked down at her feet. “It was intimidating, but he was a lot higher up the food chain than me, so I didn’t want to displease him. He beckoned me over with his hand, leering at me. I remember the cigarette was dangling out of it, dropping bits of ash as he waved it around. Eventually I worked my way through to him, and he just stood there staring at me for a moment through those narrowed eyes. The others were smiling, snickering. I felt like I needed to run, just get the hell out, but for some reason I couldn’t.”