The Seeds of New Earth

by Mark R. Healy

  Someone had spared no expense on this thing.

  I set the Helios upright and dusted it off with my hands. There were wires and tubes that had been severed inside the body, and it would need extensive repairs. The chassis was sleek, a modern windswept design flowing in aerodynamic lines. It was eye-catching, even scratched up as it was. The manufacturer name, Astron, was emblazoned on the rear panelling, a gouge ripped right across it. The paintwork was white, but I knew that out in the sunlight it would shimmer with a metallic gold colour underneath where the solar receptors were inlaid.

  This thing would run completely on solar energy, as long as the integrated solar cells could still store charge, and as long I could fix the damage. I was no mechanic, but with some retro-engineering I could probably figure out how to get it going.

  I tore away at the last vestiges of plastic, then replaced the knife in the backpack and began to wheel it out toward the exit.

  That was when I heard it. The rasping. The sound that reminded me of a knife dragging across wood. The sound of the watcher, somewhere out there in the rain.

  A moment of anxiety was quickly overridden by anger.

  “You fucker,” I spat. I was in no mood for this. Not now. Suddenly all the frustrations and disappointments, the tension of the preceding months bore down on me and stirred a kind of primal rage within me. Without a release valve, the pressure had grown. I just hadn’t realised how much until now.

  This thing was as good a target as any upon which to vent my frustrations.

  I lowered the stand on the Helios, then brazenly charged out into the rain, yanking the shotgun from the backpack with one hand and feeling around for shells with the other. Finding a fistful, I began striding purposefully along the alleyway, slotting shells into the magazine with sharp motions of my thumb.

  “What do you want?” I screamed into the gloom. “Huh? Come out here, you fuck!”

  There was another sound, a kind of ghastly wet tearing that was muffled by the cacophony of rain and water somewhere ahead of me. I ran, abandoning all sense of caution, turning into another alleyway to see thick ripples spreading across the water as if someone had just run through there. I increased my pace, ducking into an alcove that fed into another narrow passageway. I jumped over piles of garbage, wiping rain from my eyes, ducking through fallen beams where a wall had collapsed, my pace unrelenting.

  The rasping sound bounced from the walls and narrow spaces, taunting me, remaining just out of reach. I stumbled to my knees, got back up, kept going. I clutched the shotgun firmly in my hand.

  I came out at a small courtyard that was wedged between taller apartments, a drab enclosure of four brick walls with one wooden door on the northern end that had been completely boarded up. The water gushed down the grey bricks and gurgled into a drain at my feet. There was nowhere to go, no exit through which the watcher could have run. It had eluded me again.

  “Fuck!” I yelled. “Fuck!”

  I loosed a scream of frustration and jerked the shotgun to my shoulder, firing off a round into the wall. I pumped, ejecting the empty shell, and fired again. And again. And again. I kept going until I’d emptied the magazine, screaming all the while like a madman.

  Once I’d finished I stooped over, hands on knees, feeling the rain trickling through my hair and off the end of my nose, my ears, my chin like a waterfall. Eventually I straightened, casting my eyes to the sky where drops of rain fell between the tall shapes of the buildings around me. Defeated again, I hefted the shotgun and began to walk, reaching for the slick masonry of the passageway to steady myself as I retraced my steps back toward where I’d left the Helios.

  11

  For the next two weeks my last remaining embryo in number ten refused to go away. The hCG stalled for a few days but then began to pick up. Four became seven. Seven became fifteen. Fifteen became thirty-four. And on it went. Every time I stepped into the lab I prepared for the worst, bracing myself for a drop in levels or some other failure. But it didn’t happen. That tiny speck of life wasn’t giving in.

  Another two weeks passed, and I endured more nervous waiting. More pacing, muttering. Time spent at Somerset seemed to drag on forever. I went about my duties as quickly and as efficiently as possible, but my mind was elsewhere. My only thoughts were to return to the lab the first chance I got, to bask in the glow of the a-wombs and keep them close at hand, as if my company might help to keep them alive.

  And then came the first day that I allowed myself to feel a sense of hope. To really hope. It was the day I heard a heartbeat on number ten. Watching the ultrasound imagery of the tiny foetus, I took the plunge and activated the audio feed, not really knowing what to expect. But there it was.

  Thump-thump-thump.

  Not as strong or as constant as Arsha’s embryos had been, nonetheless, it was there. Day by day it was gaining in size – slowly, way more slowly than its engineered counterparts further down the row, but growing. There was a chance now, a small chance that it would make it.

  Six weeks older, Arsha’s foetuses continued to enlarge rapidly, charting significantly greater weight and height measurements than the societal averages we had on file from before the Winter. To say they were thriving was an understatement. They were now clearly visible inside their a-wombs, almost ten centimetres in length and complete with arms and legs, ears, eyes and mouth. They kicked and moved often, their heartbeats rapid and steadfast. Their a-womb sacs were now beginning to bulge, larger than fists and taut with fluid and organic tissue.

  We kept the LEDs dim where possible so that they weren’t exposed to too much external light. The soft glow of the a-womb sacs were enough for us to see them by.

  “I could watch them all day,” Arsha remarked to me at one point as I stood bent over, watching the foetus in number two through the red-tinged skin of the sac. Arsha sat crafting a sling containing three compartments from the scraps of some leather garments she’d found. She was already preparing for the birth of these children it seemed, even at this early stage.

  “I almost feel… intrusive, examining them like this,” I said. “Poking my nose into their little world. I hope they don’t mind.”

  Her hands ceased their movement and she looked over at me. “Brant, have you seen what’s happening on ten?”

  I gave her a curious look. “Of course I have. What do you mean?”

  “I mean things don’t look good for it.”

  I waved at her dismissively. “No, it’s fine.”

  “It’s not fine. You know that.”

  “So that’s why you’re not building a fourth compartment in the sling, huh? Already consigning this one to oblivion?”

  She put the leather aside self-consciously. “Come here, then.” She strode over to the touch panel for a-womb ten. “Look at these projections.”

  “I’ve seen the projections.”

  “Then you’ll know there’s a deficiency developing in the left side of the heart.”

  I’d seen the readout before. It was difficult to miss, sitting there in luminous white lettering on the screen.

  92% probability of hypoplastic left heart syndrome.

  “The heart is still developing,” I said. “It’s early days yet.”

  “And look at this,” she went on. “There’s also an issue with one of the lungs that could lead to pulmonary sequestration. This infant is not going to be able to breathe.”

  “I’m not giving up on it, Arsha.”

  “Look,” she said, and her voice softened. “I’m not some heartless bitch, okay? I know how much you want this. I know what it means to you.”

  “I’m not sure you do.”

  “I do. I know we’ve had our differences, but this is a human child. I want to see it live just as much as you do, but you have to face up to the reality that this might not end well.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  She reached out and placed a hand on my shoulder. “I’m worried for you, okay? You’ve been through so much pain. We both have
, more than anyone should have had to endure. I just don’t want to see you go through months of agony, spending all of your time and energy on a lost cause. It’s such a gamble you’re taking, pinning all your hopes on an unengineered embryo. I just don’t see how it’s going to survive. And I don’t want to see you hurt again.”

  I clasped my hand on hers and sighed. “Thank you,” I said earnestly. “I appreciate that, I really do. But this is something I have to see through to the end. For better or for worse, I have to let it run its course.”

  “Okay,” she said, pulling her hand away. “It’s your decision. I won’t get in your way.” She pursed her lips. “I hope to hell it makes it. I hope they all do.”

  For the next few months things continued in the same vein, with Arsha’s foetuses surging ahead, their sacs becoming as large as footballs, while mine laboured under what seemed like a mountain of hardships. The individual sexes of the first three were now clearly evident: there was one boy and two girls. The foetuses were large enough to recognise their individual traits, and I no longer thought of them by their a-womb numbers, but by the tone of their skin, the shape of their faces and their mannerisms. One of the girls had a peculiar tendency to suck at her wrist, while the other girl seemed to fidget endlessly. The boy had taken to frequently opening his eyes, and although he wouldn’t be capable of seeing outside the interior of the a-womb sac, I couldn’t suppress the notion that at times he was watching me.

  My foetus was without doubt the runt of the litter, not only because it was younger and less developed, but also because its rate of growth continued to chart far lower than the others. The warnings pertaining to the heart and lungs were later accompanied by newer complications with the circulatory system, and these greeted me like unwelcome guests every day upon arrival. I developed the habit of swiping them away as a matter of course. As long as the heart was still beating, as long as there was brain function, that was all I cared about. The rest I would tackle when the time came.

  When I could manage it, I’d duck into the garage further down the street where I’d stashed the Helios. If I was lucky I’d eke out an hour a week to play with it, often not even managing that. Progress was also slowed by the numerous problems I encountered.

  The first issue was the wiring. One section in particular had been slashed by the vandals, causing significant damage, and it was an arduous process to splice and repair the copper strands. Luckily I’d found a wire stripper and some needle-nose pliers in Arsha’s storeroom on level three of M-Corp, or the task would have been near impossible. One by one I went through, tracing the disparate ends, matching them up, stripping, twisting, securing. I hadn’t come across electrical tape in years, but I was able to mix up some resin that hopefully would provide insulation for the exposed areas of the splices.

  The alloy housing for the electrical components had also been knocked around quite a lot. It was imperative that I find a way of fastening it back in place to keep water and muck out of the innards of the machine, so I settled on wedging a shaft of metal into one of the ruined screw holes. Not pretty, but it seemed to do the job.

  I eventually made enough progress to move onto the next stage of the restoration. Wheeling it outside into the street, I placed the Helios in a location where it could bathe in the sunlight that filtered down between the skyscrapers. The chassis gleamed pearly white in the brightness, gold rippling beneath where the solar receptors soaked up the energy that radiated down from above. I left it there to sit for a few minutes, hoping the cells would start to register an incoming charge, but was dismayed to find that they had registered nothing at all. There were not even basic diagnostics showing up, so in all likelihood the cells were dead.

  That would mean more time spent searching for replacements, and that was time that, for now, I didn’t have. The Helios would have to wait.

  Back at the lab, the first foetuses had reached twenty-eight weeks, and as their third trimester began they continued their rapid rate of growth. Each of them measured over forty centimetres in length and weighed in excess of a kilogram, the glowing red sacs that encompassed them weighing heavily on the supporting mesh of the a-wombs. More features became apparent: one of the girls was growing dark hair; eyelashes were clearly visible. They snuggled and wriggled their shoulders as they dreamed. At one point Arsha accidentally clattered an instrument noisily on the workbench and all three jumped in unison like they’d been poked in the ribs.

  “Ears are working,” I remarked, and Arsha smiled sheepishly.

  The intimacy afforded by the transparent a-wombs made everything so much more palpable than any normal pregnancy. This had gone beyond the realms of a lab experiment. It wasn’t like observing foetuses anymore. Walking into the lab now was like entering a room full of quietly sleeping children. I knew their faces, their mannerisms, the times of day they’d seem to wake and open their eyes. The lining of the sacs almost seemed to not exist anymore. It just melted away to the point where I almost believed I could reach over and take them in my arms. I felt like a proud parent already, even though birth was still months away.

  The foetus in number ten was not faring quite so well. The heart and lung complications had not gone away, and more than once there had been alerts from the touch panel that the heart rate had slowed to dangerous levels. But still it continued to cling to life, earning more and more of my admiration and love with every passing day.

  As I stood there watching, it opened its eyes to reveal dark irises, scrubbing a hand across its mouth before lying still again. I reached out and touched my fingertips to the sac, making the slightest of indentations in the flexible lining.

  “Hello there,” I crooned. “Are you awake?”

  The little one seemed to snuggle at the sound of my utterance and its eyes closed again.

  “It knows your voice,” Arsha said, appearing at my shoulder.

  “Not sure about that.”

  “It does. I can tell.”

  I lifted my fingers from the sac and the impressions of my fingertips slowly dissolved.

  “Do you think they’re already bonding with us?” I said.

  “I hope so,” she said. Then, “Yeah, I think they are.”

  “How do we tell them?”

  “Tell them…?” she trailed off, prompting me to continue with a shrug.

  “That we aren’t their parents.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Getting ahead of yourself there, aren’t you?”

  “It’s going to happen at some point.”

  “We tell them the same way it was always done with adopted children. When they’re old enough, we tell them the truth.”

  “And until then?”

  “That’s just something we’re going to have to figure out along the way, Brant.” She indicated to the a-womb. “How’s it doing, anyway?”

  “Still ticking along.”

  “A tough little thing, isn’t it?” she said in wonder.

  “Tough as nails. But the fight isn’t done yet.”

  “No. Still not out of the woods.”

  “Oh, by the way, we’re going to have to top up the nutrient stocks in the next few days,” I said. “They’re chewing through it like you wouldn’t believe.”

  Arsha laughed. “Yeah, I noticed. They’re eating us out of house and home already. It’s okay, I’ll bring a supply in from Cider tomorrow and start it processing.” She returned her attention to the sac, where the foetus seemed to be attempting to stretch its legs, straining at its confines and causing the lining of the a-womb to extend slightly. It opened its legs wide. “You said you weren’t going to check the sex until the birth, but I guess it’s become a bit too obvious now, huh?”

  I grinned as the foetus pulled its legs back to a resting position, then lifted its hand and began to suck on the knuckle of its forefinger.

  “Yeah. Looks like it’s a boy.”

  12

  The Helios shone in the dwindling sunlight as the chill of evening began to descend. Scraps of g
arbage danced around it and dragged against the tyres. I cleared them away as I crouched to examine the new power cells. Diagnostics showed a combined twenty-seven percent charge between the three cells, the same as it had been yesterday. It seemed that this was as far as they were going to get.

  Better than nothing.

  The months I’d spent tinkering on this thing were now at an end, one way or the other. Either it was going to work or it wasn’t. With the birth of the first child due in less than a month, I no longer had the time to spend on this pursuit. I’d found the replacement power cells during my travels in recent weeks and was surprised that they’d worked at all. One in particular was not even the correct dimensions for the cycle, and I’d had to force it in, protesting and squealing like a recalcitrant pig. Despite that, the cells had charged to a level that should allow the Helios to run for a few hours at a time.

  The last step in getting it into operation was to bypass the starter mechanism, which was calibrated to respond only to the DNA of the registered owner. There was a method of rerouting the wiring that I’d witnessed once in the early days of the Winter, an incident I remembered vividly. A wild-eyed youth, twitchy and strung out on juice had attacked a man trying to weave his cycle through a crowd of people, knocking him to the ground and stomping viciously on his head. I’d started forward to intervene, but a crony of the first youth had rounded on the crowd with a gun, shrieking “Get the fuck back!” while the other had set to work on the cycle. Using a screwdriver, he’d pried open the ignition housing and performed the procedure in a matter of seconds, his hands darting with a surety borne of repetition and practice. The two of them had sped off together, hollering and knocking people aside as they careened through the throng to make their escape.