Sons of Earth

by Geralyn Wichers

  “Are you excited?” she asked.

  He looked over at her as he held the lab door open and said, perfectly toneless, “Yes, of course.”

  “Tell it to your face.”

  Dominic’s face froze. Then his eyes sparkled and his lips twitched. “My face has long since ceased communication with my emotions.”

  Khalia chuckled as she passed by him into the laboratory.

  In spite of the fact that she’d performed the maneuver hundreds, even thousands of times, Khalia held her breath as she inserted the prepared MFP2.1 nucleus into the egg. Under the microscope the tiny syringe looked huge as it penetrated the cell wall. The genetic material slipped into the empty nucleus, and Khalia removed the syringe. Done.

  Dominic and Barjinder stood with arms folded, watching.

  “And done.” Khalia held out the petri dish, and Barjinder popped it into the holding chamber. Dominic passed her the next prepared, labeled dish, and she repeated the maneuver until all five eggs were in the biochamber.

  Khalia felt a smile break across her face. “I give you MFP2.1.”

  Barjinder grinned and clapped lightly.

  Dominic smiled, though his brow wrinkled. “And so it begins. The new perfection.”

  “Oh, MFP1 wasn’t perfect,” Khalia said. She followed him out of the room and stripped off her gloves. She set the paper down on the table turned to make notes on her records. Then what he said registered. She turned back. “Wait, what?”

  Barjinder slipped out the door. Dominic turned a chair around and sat, arms resting on the back. “Well, think about it. They engineered a perfect being, and now we’re engineering an even more perfect being.” He quirked his fingers in quotations at the word 'perfect'.

  Something was vaguely familiar about that curled lip, something deep in the recesses of her memory. But Khalia didn’t give it much thought. She’d just created five zygotes, the beginnings of life, and he was already criticizing it. Hadn’t he asked to be on this project?

  “So what, that bothers you?” she said, crossing her arms across her chest.

  “Maybe I have an inferiority complex.” Dominic smirked and rested his chin on his lab-coated arms.

  “Oh, you’re full of it. Really. Tell me.” She shook her head. “No, wait. Let me write everything down first.” Khalia spun back to the desk and finished the paperwork, signing it with a flourish. “Okay, really. Rant at me.”

  Dominic pushed the chair away from the desk and stood up. “No, that’s all I’m going to say. Think about it.”

  “Dominic! Dom!” Jennifer’s shrill voice came from the door. “Khalia… Oh, wait? Did you just do the transfer?”

  Khalia nodded.

  “Great.” Jennifer flipped her ash-blond ponytail and turned back to Dominic. “So, we were talking about the holiday party.”

  “I’m not going,” Dominic said coolly. He spun the chair and shoved it into its slot in the desk.

  “No, not that one.” Jennifer giggled. “Khalia, you haven’t told him? Our lab has its own holiday party, hosted at one of our homes. And you’re new, so…”

  “I don’t host.” Dominic’s lips pressed together. Khalia thought she saw a hint of fear in his eyes. She didn’t blame him. If there was anyone who would argue with Dominic and win, it was Jennifer.

  “Doesn’t matter.” Jennifer lifted her chin and headed for the door. “Elsa and I would be glad to help.”

  “Out of the question.”

  “It’ll be great,” Jennifer tossed over her shoulder. She wiggled her fingers in a wave, and disappeared.

  “Damn it,” Dominic muttered. “I don’t know much, but I don’t think I will be getting out of this. Perhaps I can plead that I do not celebrate Christmas for religious reasons?”

  Khalia snorted. “Do you?”

  “I’m not religious,” Dominic said.

  “Yes. And I’m not religious either, quite the opposite. Notice that she called it a holiday party? Do you think Barjinder celebrates Christmas?”

  “I wouldn’t jump to such a conclusion,” Dominic said, straight-faced. “There are Christians of Indian origin. The apostle Thomas was the first missionary to India, or so I was told.”

  “What?”

  “I was raised by a cleric—my uncle.” He stepped out of the room. “Want coffee? I’ll bring it to your desk.”

  “Yes, please.” Khalia picked up her paperwork and sighed. Raised by a clergyman? I would have never guessed that. Well, he could be pessimistic if he wanted, but she was thrilled. This was what she’d worked for her entire career.

  Ten minutes later, Dom set her travel mug in front of her. “Now Meena is harassing me about the damn holiday party. What is this? Hazing the freshman?” He spun in his chair and rolled his eyes at her before settling in front of his screen. She saw him flip through screens on the laptop before settling on the camera monitoring the biochambers.

  Khalia smiled. There was nothing to see yet, but she understood his curiosity. It was like having a baby monitor.

  “What does one need for these things?” he asked, eyes on the screen. “Copious amounts of hard liquor?”

  Khalia snorted.

  Dominic glanced at her out of the corner of his eye like he didn’t know what he’d said. “No?”

  “You’ll need it if you want to have a good time.”

  Dominic narrowed his eyes at her, still completely serious. “Define having a good time.”

  “Watching Adam and Jennifer sing karaoke?” Khalia broke into a grin—not because it was a good memory, but because it was so damn horrible.

  Dominic’s eyes went huge, then rolled back. He snorted and looked back at the screen.

  Khalia flipped screens to the biocrib monitor and stared at the glass box, glowing blue. One month. One month, and they’d have babies. The miracle of artificial birth.

  “Pizza,” Dominic said, “I will order it in. Buy as much cheap beer as I can, and let them eat their hearts out.”

  “Oh dear Dominic, no.” Khalia jerked around to face him. “You can do better than that. Surely a man smart enough to work here can figure out how to throw a holiday party.”

  “Catering?” Dom offered weakly.

  “Now you’re talking. I know a good one." If they were still in business. It had been six years since her wedding. "What about decorations?”

  “Out of the question. I have no use for them.”

  “You’re hosting. They’re not for you, they’re for Jennifer, and Meena and everyone who might care until they’re drunk.”

  He eyed her.

  “Get a tree,” Khalia said. “That’s all you have to do. Somehow the sight of a conifer decked out in lights and tacky ornaments makes everyone feel sentimental and cozy.”

  “I’m not taking care of a tree.”

  “Get a fake one. I have one, you can use it.” Khalia hadn’t put a tree up since Jeremy had died, two Christmases ago, and she sure as heck wasn’t going to put it up now. Exactly who whom would be there to enjoy it? The sight of it was sure to make her puke.

  “How strange these humans are.” Dominic turned and faced her. “I’ll tell you what. You haul that dead tree over and set it up. I’ll hire a caterer, and we’ll call it a party. Deal?”

  “What the heck. Deal.” It would be the only party she’d have all season anyway.

  __

  “Good morning A67,” Justine said softly.

  “Good morning.” MFP25A67 held out his arm for the scan. His blue eyes met hers, just for a second—just long enough for her to scan the depths for signs of the despair she had once seen. There was nothing, just a wall behind them.

  His blood pressure was high again. With a sigh, Justine took the manual machine off the cart and fixed the cuff. As the machine sucked the band tight around the MFP’s bicep, she watched him run his bottom teeth back and forth across his top lip. His fingers twitched at his sides.

  “Shhh,” she whispered. “Relax, it’s okay.”

  He looked
up. The corners of his eyes tightened and his lip curled, almost imperceptible.

  Justine started and fought the urge to lean back. She pulled the blood-pressure cuff off his arm and ran through the tests with more speed than usual.

  She was preoccupied by A67’s veiled hostility until she reached the A130’s. “Good morning.” She paused at A134 and glanced up as he held out his arm. The scanner bleeped and her eyes skimmed over the numbers. The vitals were all steady, even the weight.

  Her head jerked up. She narrowed his eyes. This wasn’t A134. It was A135, with the slightly wider face and longer nose.

  “Good morning,” he answered placidly.

  “Lisa?” Justine scanned the next aisle over for her friend. “Where is MFP25A134?” She strained her memory. She had checked the placement screen before she walked in. There had been nothing out of place, had there?

  Lisa looked up, and even behind her blue surgical mask, Justine could she her face droop. “He was rejected.”

  “What? No!”

  “Shhh!” Lisa left her cart and crossed over. She grabbed Justine by the arms. “Shh! Don’t be upset around the MFPs!”

  No! Really, truly, she’d seen this coming. The nutrition changes were helping, but not much. A134 had known it. She’d read it in his blood pressure, his sleep patterns, his heartbeat. In spite of his composed face, she’d been sure he was depressed. She’d even proscribed him extra mood-boosting vitamins in an attempt to jog him into a better state.

  Her chest clamped like a vise, and Justine wanted only to be at home in Casey’s arms. Her eyes burned as she tried to hold in her tears. “Lisa… I… I gotta go to the bathroom.” She dropped scanner back onto the cart and bolted from the room. She half-ran down the hall and into the locker room, not even stopping to strip off her gloves and hairnet until she was halfway out of her scrubs. She ran into one of the bathroom stalls just as her tears erupted. Justine leaned her head against the cool metal partition and sobbed.

  “Oh dear God, why? Why do I have to do this job? Why do you let people do this?” Hadn’t she been ‘doing good’ as Casey predicted? Hadn’t she been caring for these men like they were… she didn’t know… brothers? And now, like so much refuse, A134 had been thrown away. Died, alone and friendless to be…

  She jerked off the toilet and spun around. Her meager breakfast poured out of her mouth, mixed with bile, into the porcelain bowl.

  “Justine. Justine!” Lisa’s voice echoed in the bathroom. Her sock-clad feet padded closer. “Justine,” she whispered. “Where are you?”

  Justine spat into the soupy bowl. “Y-you should be working.” Tears dropped into the vomit. Her stomach heaved, threatening to send more up. She raised her head to get away from the stench, but it had already filled her nostrils.

  “I know. Where are you?” Lisa stopped outside. “Let me in. I know you’re not sitting on the toilet.”

  Justine stood up, and the toilet automatically flushed, sending away the vile mess. She unlatched the door, and Lisa stood there in the tank top and leggings that she wore under her scrubs, arms crossed.

  “I’m sorry, Justine. I didn’t mean to be insensitive.” Her blue eyes were moist. “It’s hard for me too, okay?”

  Justine wiped at her nose and eyes. “I wanted to save him. I thought I could.”

  “It’s not your fault. It wasn’t in your hands.”

  “He was a human being!” Justine cried. Tears coursed down her cheeks, afresh. “He was an innocent man!”

  Lisa grabbed her and roughly pulled her into an embrace. “God is merciful,” she whispered in her ear. “If A134 was an innocent, he will be safe in God’s arms now.”

  That might have been true, but for Justine that wasn’t good enough.

  She met Casey on the stairs when she got home. His face was grimy and tired. Still, he turned and grinned at her. But his smile froze and faded when he saw her face. The tears had long since dried on her cheeks, but something had given her away.

  “What’s wrong?” He clambered down the stairs between them and grabbed her arm. “What happened?”

  Justine sagged against his cold jacket and smelled faint hints of manure and diesel exhaust. “My first rejection.”

  Casey’s brown creased. “What? Oh…” His arms slipped around her and he rested his chin on her shoulder. He’d gone tense with anger.

  “He-he knew, and he was s-scared,” she said into his chest. “He was getting depressed, and nothing I could do helped.”

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  “It’s so wrong! They didn’t even bother to change his nutrition plan. If they’d just... if they’d... It’s so wrong!”

  “Yes it is.” His breath hissed slowly from his nostrils. “Yes it is.” Casey stepped back and turned her to walk up the stairs ahead of him. His hand rested firmly on her back, propelling her. Their clunking footsteps echoed in the stairwell.

  Casey unlocked the apartment door and tossed his gloves into the basket in the closet. Justine kicked her shoes off and hung up her jacket, on the other side of the closet from Casey’s to avoid picking up the farm smells.

  As soon as she’d set the hanger on the bar, Casey wrapped her in his arms and kissed her. As he pulled away, he said, “There doesn’t seem to be anything I can do for you, and that kills me, Justine. It kills me.”

  “I know.” Justine walked around him and rummaged through the cupboard for the pot. Behind her, Casey opened the fridge and took out the meat she’d put to thaw.

  It dawned on her, then, that this had been Casey’s last day at the farm. He was laid off now. She pulled the pot out of the cupboard and set it down. “How was your last day?”

  He shrugged. “Normal. How are we doing for venison?” He clunked the plate down on the counter.

  “I’ve used maybe half of it.”

  “I haven’t seen a deer for a while.”

  As winter set in, their meals consisted of more and more beans, rice and potatoes. The harvest season, when Casey had spent long hours in the fields alone, or with one or two co-workers, had yielded enough meat to fill their tiny freezer. The deer would come onto the field to eat, and Casey or his coworkers would shoot them with bows and arrows they had made. It was a risky business, for if the foremen caught them it would be their jobs on the line. The men had become proficient at hiding the meat and retrieving it after dark.

  And now that Casey was laid off, he would be venturing out to hunt again—hunt, trap, scavenge, wander the city looking for work. He’d do whatever he could to find food for them and things to turn into income. Much of it illegal.

  Casey’s hand closed on her shoulder and massaged at the tight bands of muscle. “Go lie down. I can figure this out.”

  “No, it’s okay...”

  “No, really.” Casey took the pot from her hand. “Potatoes or rice?”

  “You pick.”

  “Go.” He tipped his chin toward the couch.

  Justine dragged her feet toward the sofa. “Take the apple crisp out, too. I want to take it to church.”

  “Yup. Go sleep.”

  Justine laid her head on one of the lumpy cushions and listened to Casey clunk around the kitchen. Meat and onions sizzled in the pan, and soon she heard water boiling. As soon as she lay down, she knew she was tired. The thought of eating, even the apple crisp, made her stomach feel heavy.

  Casey woke her up half an hour later with a kiss, and made her eat the rice and venison stew he’d made. Afterward, Casey showered while Justine did up the dishes and packed the dish of apple crisp into a bag.

  The night was cold and dry. Under their feet the ice cracked on the sidewalk as Casey led her in the shadows between the grey apartment blocks. Every light was on inside the apartments, but the streetlights had conked out as they did every second evening. Still, Casey knew the way to Ernest Brewster’s house, where they were gathering. Ernest and Casey had roomed together when they were both single men.

  “Come in!” Ernest, his wide grin r
inged by his shaggy red beard, waved them through the door and took the bag from Casey. “Casey, you baked. You shouldn’t have.”

  “I know. I know.”

  Lisa looked up at Justine with worried eyes as they entered the living room where the other ten were waiting. Justine did her best to smile, and sat down beside Casey on the floor.

  Ernest plopped down on the floor and spread a newspaper out in front of him. "This came through the shop. I thought you might find it interesting. It's a few days old."

  Casey's hand lingered on her waist as he leaned in to read the text. "'City churches call for better stewardship of the manufactured persons.' That sounds good at first glance." He gnawed his lip as his eyes skimmed over the page. "...God said that we shall have dominion over every living thing that has the breath of life. Recent statistics of the mortality rates among manufactured persons suggest inhumane living and working conditions..." he trailed off. His face grew more and more incredulous. "Inhumane? They're slowly taking every good job in the city. I've yet to see an emaciated Empty. They're worth good money. People take care of their property."

  Justine flinched. Casey froze, then turned to look at her. "Sorry, baby, I..."

  She pulled away from his hand. "You don't understand, Case. You don't see them every day, not like I do. It doesn't matter that they're fed and clothed if they're in slavery. They're humans, made in God's image like we are. Do you deny it?"

  "No," Casey breathed. "Forgive me. I spoke in anger and missed the point entirely. I've become a product of my time... ahh." He scrubbed at his eyes and said in falsetto, "Oh, they're treated well. They don't know any better." He looked up at Ernest. "Your goods are delivered by MPs, sometimes. Do you ever interact with them?"

  "The barest essentials," Ernest said slowly. He scrubbed at his beard with one palm. "It's hard to connect with a man who won't look you in the eye."

  "They're not allowed!" Justine rose up on her knees.

  "I know," he said in a low voice, "And I do talk to them a little, and give them coffee and whatever else. These days they often look cold as heck by the end of the day. One time I think I talked to one too much, and I never saw him again. I hope he was just assigned a different route."