by JT Lawrence
James wiggles his finger to draw her eye down, then, barely moving, he points at his shirt, the couch, his jacket, then touches his hair.
‘It’s a catastrophe waiting to happen,’ says the doctor. ‘So, the three of us—’
‘The Trinity.’ says Seth.
‘The Trinity.’
Kirsten, frustrated, looks away, but James keeps staring at her. When she looks at him again he does the exact same thing. Shirt, couch, jacket, hair. He actually points twice at the couch, which she missed the first time around.
‘We met in varsity,’ says the doctor, ‘took the same ethics class in first year. The debate question was: should South African citizens be required to obtain a permit before they procreate? This is, after all, what people do in Europe and other such countries, when they want to adopt a pet, an animal. There is a battery of psychological tests, a home screening. The system works well. The whole class was in an uproar: of course not! everyone yelled. What about human rights? The constitution! But the three of us argued in favour of the hypothesis. Human rights on the one hand, quality of human life on the other.’
Shirt, couch, couch, jacket, hair.
Seth wonders how many times the doctor has given this impassioned speech, how often he rehearses it in the shower, or while shaving.
‘When tap water became undrinkable, it came to us. It was such an elegant solution. Dose only the state-subsidised drinking water, and leave the more expensive waters pure. If the privileged citizens drink Hydra for whatever reason, and find they have problems conceiving, they have the means to get help. Fertility clinics abound.’
‘It’s cruel. Barbaric.’
‘Nature is cruel, Miss Lovell. Do you know that the embryos of sand tiger sharks kill and eat their siblings in utero? It’s the epitome of survival of the fittest. You can’t fight evolution.’
‘Children may be the only gifts a poor family has.’
The doctor laughs. ‘Ah, now you’re being sentimental. What about the burden those ‘gifts’ cause the family, and the country? The planet? What about those children who have to be brought up in dire circumstances? They fall through the cracks. Before we started implementing The Programme the situation was reaching breaking point. Hundreds of babies being born every day and South Africa’s education system was broken.
‘Do you know what a broken education system does? It puts people on the street. Criminals. Beggars. Infants were being hired for the day by professional street beggars to garner more sympathy from drivers. There were newborns for sale, advertised in the online classifieds! Other babies were lost on crowded beaches never to be claimed, left in dumpsters, or worse.
‘In May, 2013, I was having a personal crisis. Wondering if my work would ever make a real difference. In that month two abandoned babies were found: one wrapped in a plastic bag, burnt. The other was stuck in a sewage pipe—his mother had tried to flush him down the toilet. A healthy newborn! And you talk to me of barbarians. The bottom line was that children were too easy to come by, often unwanted, abused, neglected. The Trinity vowed to take a stand against their suffering. It was—is—incredibly personal. We all have our own stories. Christopher Walden was brutally sodomised—raped—by his priest at a church camp. He managed to escape to a nearby house and use their telephone to call his parents. You know what they did? Told him to stop making up stories and go back to camp. Then they called the priest and told him where he was.’
The doctor walks over to Mouton.
‘Mouton,’ he says, now with compassion in his voice. ‘Show them your arm.’
For the first time, Mouton is hesitant to obey orders.
‘Show them,’ says the doctor. ‘Help them to understand the work we are doing here.’
Mouton sets his jaw and lifts the sleeve of his shirt to reveal the entire burn scar. It travels from his wrist to his armpit. A swirling motif of shining vandalism.
‘That’s not one burn. It’s not from a once-off childhood accident. Marius’s father used to hold his arm over a flame for punishment every time he cried, because “Men Don’t Cry”. A candle, the gas stove, a cigarette lighter, whatever was handy at the time. It started on his first birthday.’
Mouton pulls his sleeve back down. Shirks his shirt into place.
‘My scars aren’t so obvious,’ says Van der Heever, ‘my father preferred the crunch of breaking bones. That, and psychological abuse. Once, my dog, the only friend I had, followed a farmworker home. My father was furious. That night I put out extra food for him, for when he came home. The next morning, when he returned, galloping and barking and happy to see us all, my father shot him in the head. The dog had been disloyal, he said. It was to teach me the value of loyalty. I was six years old.’
He takes a breath, lifts his glasses then rubs the bridge of his nose.
‘I’m sure you can’t imagine that now. It was before your time. Babies were seen as... expendable. Too many to go around, and most born to undeserving parents. Abuse was inevitable. Unchecked procreation was a scourge on our society. I knew when I heard that story about the baby being flushed down the toilet... I knew then that my work was vital.’
Shirt, couch, couch, jacket, hair. Blue, brown, brown, grey, yellow.
‘Don’t you see?’ he asks, ‘what we planned so long ago, what we have been working towards, is finally starting to come to fruition. Peace and purity. By tamping off the birth rate we have solved a host of societal ills. There are no more abandoned babies. Schools now have enough books and tablets and teachers and space for their learners, and children are looked after and cherished. Fewer uneducated people means less unemployment, less crime, less social grants. More tax money to invest in the future of the country. Better infrastructure, better schooling, better healthcare.’
Blue, brown, brown, grey, yellow, thinks Kirsten. 49981. It’s the code, she realises: the code to get out.
‘Don’t you see?’ he says again, this time more urgently, pride like fever in his face. ‘We did it! We are responsible for the ultimate bloodless revolution!’
Chapter 36
Next Stop: Cyborgs
Johannesburg, 2021
Keke stirs on the couch, but settles down again. Van der Heever is tireless.
‘If you put your emotions aside for just a moment and look at the results, morally and ethically speaking, it’s accepted that the welfare of the many should take precedence over the welfare of the few, and as such, sacrifices needed to be made. We were not, contrary to what you may think, barbarous about it, as many eugenicists have been before us... unwitting patients waking up, in pain, only to realise that their uteri had been removed. Our solution was much more humane. Cleaner. In fact, we believe that once it becomes clear what has happened here, other countries will follow suit, and soon we’ll have a global population that is both under control and more efficient.’
‘Next stop: cyborgs,’ says Seth. ‘That’s not a world I want to live in.’
‘Dear boy, if the population of the rest of the world keeps growing as it is, there will no longer be a world to live in. We are safeguarding the future for all.’
‘For some. For those you deem fit. Others you deny a future altogether. How many cells are there?’ asks Kirsten. ‘How many people’s lives have you stolen?’
‘A dozen, maybe more. An infinitesimal portion of the population. Genesis members, however, are in the thousands. They’re in every strata of South African life.’ He lifts his palms to the ceiling, as if he is some kind of prophet. ‘How else would we be able to pull this off?’
‘I still don’t understand,’ says Seth, perhaps trying to buy more time, ‘the point of the clone project. So you isolated some interesting genes. Then what?’
‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’
‘Try me. What was the point? To splice a little army for yourself? Take over the world?’
‘The point was to create a superior race.’
‘So not unlike Hitler, then,’ says Kirsten.
‘But how would it work,’ asks Seth, ‘in your sad, imaginary world? Deserving parents would get their license and then come along to you for a designer embryo? You harvest their eggs and sperm and make a few little tweaks, remove any genetic abnormalities, add some extra brains or blue eyes. Ask them if they’d prefer a boy or a girl. It’s bespoke IVF. You’re fooling yourself. You’re not making the world a better place. You’re in the designer baby business, a fertility quack. There is nothing new or noble about that.’
‘You don’t understand how far technology has come.’ The doctor smiles.
‘Okay, you straight-out clone them, then.’
‘Cloning is now old tech. It was never very successful. The ratio of live births wasn’t good at all. We started with cloning because it was the best technology we had at the time, but now... now we have other means. Besides, cloning is still dependent on the pregnancy and birth being successful. There are just too many things that can go wrong. Too many variables we can’t control. So... we cut out the gestation period.’
‘Wait,’ says Kirsten, ‘what?’
‘You’ve cut out the gestation?’ says Seth. ‘As in, you grow them in artificial wombs, in the lab?’
Kirsten pictures a room filled with transparent silicone wombs and feels like throwing up again.
‘We experimented with that, but it wasn’t a viable solution in the end. It was difficult to get the exact... nuances of the environment right.’
‘Right,’ says Seth. He is genuinely interested now. ‘Okay, now you have to tell me.’
Dr Van der Heever’s lips curl up into a smile; there is a snap in his eyes.
‘We print them,’ he says, not being able to keep the pride out of his voice. ‘We print babies.’
Chapter 37
That’s What Frankenstein Said
Johannesburg, 2021
‘You print babies,’ repeats Seth. It’s not sinking in.
‘That’s impossible,’ says Kirsten.
‘Oh believe me,’ Van der Heever says, ‘it is.’
The doctor gets up from his chair and motions for them to follow him. He activates a door hidden in his bookshelf, which swings open, and he steps through. Mouton pushes them forward from behind, leaving Keke on the couch in the den. Soon they are standing in the white cube of a pristine lab (Immaculate Conception), the brightness highlighting the dirt and blood on their clothes and skin, adding to the surreal quality of the moment.
Kirsten looks down at her hands, fingernails black with grime, but is distracted by a small cry in the corner. She studies the row of incubators against the wall: a stack of empty Tupperwares. Has she imagined the sound? Is she imagining this whole thing? Is she lying unconscious somewhere, at the scene of the earlier car accident, or in hospital, having this bizarre dream?
A nearby machine, monochrome, spins. It looks like some kind of body scanner.
‘We were already printing fully functional organs in 2010. It was the natural progression to print a whole body. All you really need is good software and some DNA. And stem cells, obviously, which there’s no shortage of in our game. We’ve printed over a thousand healthy babies, and we have a 100% success rate. No more failed fertility treatments. No more mothers dying in labour, no more birth injuries or foetal abnormalities. Just screaming healthy newborns with 10 out of 10 Apgars, every time.’
‘But you can’t print a beating heart,’ says Kirsten.
‘Ah, that was one of the most challenging parts,’ says Van der Heever, touching his chest, ‘but a quick current to those heart cells and off they go—galloping along. It’s a beautiful thing to behold.’
Seth says, ‘I think that’s what Frankenstein said.’
The doctor indulges Seth with a smile.
‘Where are they, then? The babies?’ asks Kirsten.
‘A lot of them have been adopted out. As you know, the demand for healthy babies nowadays is astronomical.’
‘You sold them?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘So you cause a nation-wide fertility crisis and then set up a designer baby factory,’ says Seth. ‘Genius.’
‘What about the rest?’ asks Kirsten.
‘We evacuated them when we got confirmation that you were coming in.’
‘You evacuated the whole building,’ says Kirsten.
The doctor nods. ‘I couldn’t take the chance you’d not... co-operate with us.’
‘I wouldn’t “co-operate” with you if my life depended on it.’
‘That’s what I thought you’d say.’
Another soft sound from the corner: a cooing. Transparent bubbles float playfully towards her. Kirsten blinks forcefully to wipe them out of her vision.
‘That’s why,’ says Van der Heever, ‘I had to up the stakes.’
He walks to the corner incubator, opens the top, and gently lifts a newborn out from inside. He carries the baby back to them like a proud relative. It’s swaddled in a blanket embellished with planes and clouds that float in the sky. The baby squirms, tries to break free, shouts, and then fixes Kirsten with an intense stare. She knows she should feel revulsion. The doctor can barely contain his excitement. He raises the baby up, like a trophy, like the prize he’ll never get from his peers.
It looks... It looks just like—
‘James, Kirsten, meet your progeny. Congratulations. It’s a baby boy.’
Chapter 38
White Hole
Johannesburg, 2021
‘No,’ says James, breaking his silence. ‘It can’t be.’
‘What have you done?’ whispers Kirsten.
‘You came to me for help,’ Van der Heever says, ‘you wanted to have a baby.’
‘Not like this,’ she says.
‘I know it’s still a novel idea to you, but this is how all babies will be made in the future.’
‘No,’ says Kirsten, shaking her head.
‘There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s a perfectly healthy baby!’
‘You’re saying he’s ours? Mine and Kirsten’s? You used our DNA?’ asks James.
‘That’s what I’ve been telling you! All your best traits, with none of your problematic genes. We switched off two for cancer, and one for dementia, I believe. He’ll have Kirsten’s hair, your eyes. Your fine motor skills, and Kirsten’s artistic talent.’
The baby starts fussing, his skin blooms pink. The doctor motions for James to take off Kirsten’s handcuffs, and as he does so, she feels his fingers slip into the back pocket of her wrecked jeans. A set of small keys: for Seth’s handcuffs, she guesses. She takes the baby from Van der Heever without thinking, just scoops him up with her un-broken arm and rocks him, inhales the warmth of his skin, kisses his forehead. The baby calms, gazes up at her, barely blinking. She can feel him, smell him, and in that moment she knows acutely this is no dream. This baby—her baby—is real. Her whole body stupidly longs for the bundle in her arms.
‘Why did you do this?’ Kirsten keeps her voice low. ‘Why bring us in and tell us everything? Why didn’t you just have us killed, like the rest?’
The doctor puts his hands behind his back, strolls towards the empty incubators, leans against one of them.
‘I’m getting older now. Softer? My health isn’t what it used to be. It’s too late to switch off the genes that are causing my heart to fail. My career has always been all consuming. I’ll continue working but it’s time for me to start taking some time off. Play golf. Travel. Watch my grandson grow up.’
‘You can’t be serious,’ says James. ‘You think we can just forget all this and play Happy Families?’
‘Grandson?’ says Kirsten.
Van der Heever’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘You haven’t t
old her?’
‘Why would I tell her?’ demands James. ‘Why would I tell anyone?’
His words hang in the air: the outburst makes Kirsten’s head spin.
‘Father?’ She looks at James. ‘He’s your father?’
‘Not by choice,’ spits James. ‘I broke all ties with him as soon as I had an idea about what he was doing. But this... my imagination didn’t go this far.’
‘Not your choice,’ says the doctor. ‘Indeed. It was my choice.’
‘What?’
‘My choice, to be your father. You were the first of the 1991 seven to be chosen to be incorporated into the clonotype programme. You were the first to be... taken.’
Kirsten thinks of the list, pictures it in her mind, sees the code of the last person on the list: number seven. Sees the colours, and recognises Marmalade’s date of birth. So he was also abducted, she realises, was also a victim. Abducted then used to lure the rest of us. Bait. A toddler version of Stockholm syndrome.
James blinks.
‘I am one of the seven?’ he asks, amazed. ‘I am not biologically tied to you? We don’t share the same blood?’ Something dark and heavy lifts off his shoulders; a shadow escapes his face.
‘I did... care for you,’ says Van der Heever. ‘I didn’t make the same mistakes my father made, with me. You were always well cared for.’
‘You abused me,’ says James.
‘I never lifted a hand to you.’
‘You used me as a lure,’ says James. ‘I was a child.’
Kirsten gazes at the baby who has now fallen asleep in her arms. His energy, like James’s, is orange (Candied Minneola). Fresh, tangy, sweet. Mini-Marmalade. She feels a rush of tenderness.