by Nadia Afifi
Someone made a bowl of popcorn and D’Arcy passed it along to Amira with an apologetic smile. Amira shrugged. She liked Julian, but he reminded her of a child in a kitchen, trying to touch things even though they had burned him once. He never knew when to leave something unsaid, or didn’t care enough to hold back. But this night was about Pandora, her and D’Arcy’s moment. She accepted a handful of popcorn, a peace offering.
The noise of the crowd died down. Someone retrieved the live Stream feed from their Eye and projected it onto the screen. In moments, a three-dimensional Valerie Singh materialized in front of them, sitting cross-legged with folded arms in what Amira immediately recognized as the inner courtyard of the Soma building. The camera had been angled so that protesters remained hidden from view.
The interviewer for the exclusive was Harrison Harvey, a former biologist turned media personality known more for his flamboyant outfits and headline-grabbing statements than for his research contributions. He sat opposite Singh in a lilac suit that immediately sent D’Arcy into fits of laughter. Amira was impressed by Singh’s ability to keep an impassive expression on her face as he slicked back his paper-white hair, cleared his throat loudly and began.
“Good evening, Westport, and hello, world! I come to you tonight from the imposing Mendel-Soma complex in Aldwych, the beating heart of Westport.
“I am joined here by the pioneering geneticist whose breakthrough work removed cancer from our genetic code. Her research has lengthened our lives, and now she seeks to fundamentally change how we create new life under the always fascinating, always boundary-pushing Pandora project, in which she is attempting to produce the first fully formed human clone.”
He turned to Singh and continued in a melodramatic, somber tone.
“But the Pandora project has not been without struggle and tragedy. Last summer, Westport was rocked by the deaths of two young women who bravely volunteered for the project. Many began to question both the feasibility of the Pandora project’s cloning method and the regard for the safety of its subjects. However, the news from the Soma tonight is only positive, with reports that the anonymous subject now has a clean bill of health as she enters the third trimester. Is that correct, Dr. Singh?”
Valerie Singh cleared her throat.
“It is. Both the mother and fetus are doing well. We are monitoring her closely, but I am highly confident that there will be no further issues in the final trimester. The first human clone will arrive into the world safely.”
The room broke into excited chatter, as many looked back at Amira for confirmation. Julian leaned forward and gave Amira a congratulatory pat on the shoulder, but she continued to watch Singh.
“What exciting news!” Harvey said.
“We owe our success to an excellent team that includes—”
“Hold, please, just one moment, Dr. Singh,” Harvey interjected airily. “Before we take a break for our sponsor for the night, Namaste Superjuice – Empower and cleanse your life! Now, we’re bringing our viewers an exclusive look inside the famous Soma building with the project’s brainchild, Alistair Parrish.”
The screen then cut to a recording of Harrison Harvey and Alistair Parrish conversing as they sauntered through the Soma’s main walkway.
“I’m sorry, Amira,” D’Arcy whispered. “Do you think Dr. Singh was going to mention you by name?”
“No idea,” Amira said before she downed the remainder of her pilsner and reached toward the coffee table for a second drink. She never cared for the heavy craft beers popular in the Canary House, but the cool drink countered the rising heat in her face. She could only imagine Singh’s reaction to the glowing attention given to Parrish, who had spent most of the project’s duration thousands of miles above them.
“Dr. Singh,” Harvey continued. “Given all of the controversy and tragedy surrounding the Pandora project, I must ask this question – do we even need human cloning? Is it worth the hurdles to attempt such an endeavor? Cloning is still banned in most countries and is a universally unpopular idea.”
Singh carried a hint of a smile as he spoke, polite but masking subtle irritation at the question. Without missing a beat, she nodded her head.
“There are many benefits to human cloning that go beyond the obvious,” she said. “It opens the floodgates for a further understanding of our genetic makeup, which can lead to cures for diseases and even slow down the aging process. However, the most important implication of cloning, for me at least, is its ability to combat infertility and liberate women from the biological shackle of motherhood to which they are now constrained. We live much longer lives than our ancestors did, we study and work longer than ever, but women still have a narrow time window in which to reproduce. With cloning, according to the model that Pandora is pursuing, that will change to the benefit of all women.”
Someone behind Amira let out a low whistle. “Lady had that one rehearsed.”
“Interesting that you should bring that up,” Harvey said. “Because many of your critics – and there are many – argue that your agenda is to change the very fabric of our society with your project, by allowing women to reproduce completely without the, ah, assistance of men. To remove the need for men, you could say. Females creating copies of themselves. What if that becomes the new order of things, and we have women outnumbering men by overwhelming numbers? Couldn’t men become extinct?”
“Is this real?” D’Arcy asked in disgust over the jeers of other students.
As she watched some of the male students stare intently at the screen, Amira realized that the question was a valid one for many viewers beyond the Canary House, a question that spoke to their own anxieties about a world with cloning.
“The current cloning method uses female embryo replication, it’s true,” Singh said. “For the first replication attempt, we intend to use the simplest and safest approach, which is a subject hosting a clone of their own DNA. Of course, once the technology is proven successful, we envision being able to modify the early genetic code as we do now with standard pregnancies, where we can determine a host of different factors – eye color, skin tone and, of course, biological sex. In other words, male clones will become a reality someday.”
“Someday. What do we do until then?”
“I doubt this will replace the conventional method of reproduction anytime soon,” Singh responded drily. “But what it does do is provide women with alternatives that allow them to have children on their own time and on their own terms.”
“But some may not see it that way, Dr. Singh.”
“Are we supposed to slow down human progress to protect a few male egos?”
An uncomfortable silence followed. Harvey sputtered as he attempted to formulate a counterattack. Singh sat patiently, her eyebrows slightly raised in a parody of polite interest.
“Well, she’s not going to make any new friends tonight,” Julian said under his breath.
“I don’t know about that,” D’Arcy said. “I’m liking her a lot more now.”
Amira’s beer was empty again. As she returned from the kitchen with a cranberry vodka, Harvey continued to press his argument from a different angle.
“Dr. Singh, you say your motives for this controversial project are about strengthening options for women, not weakening men?”
“Of course. Presumably, one can happen without the other.”
“Was that always your view?”
“Excuse me?”
“I have here—” Harvey raised a thick paper document with a theatrical flourish, “—an article you produced back when you were a student in Mexico City. In it, you address—”
“How exactly is this relevant?” Though she appeared calm, there was no mistaking the irritation in her voice.
“All I’m doing is quoting your own words. Let me continue then, doctor. In your paper, which is titled ‘On Reproduction and the Modern W
oman’, you include the following text – and viewers, I am quoting Valerie Singh verbatim, you can find old copies of her article all over the Stream – in which you state:
Though it may run contrary to emotion and remain unpopular to say so, women have been shackled by the burden of motherhood throughout history and they remain shackled to this day. For millennia, religion and social structures have defined women first and foremost as vessels of reproduction. In present times, as women navigate their way through education, the professional world, and an increasingly revolving door of relationships and pseudo-relationships, the ever-present question hovers over them, the albatross of femininity – should I, will I, have a child? Am I complete, loved, self-actualized without this step of life, though it is one that will constrain me physically, emotionally, intellectually?
The brave new age of modern genetics promises to eliminate the burden of continuing the human race from women’s shoulders. Asexual reproduction is the first step, allowing us to reproduce without the aid of men completely, the final and ultimate goal being the divorcing of childbirth from the female body.
Harvey looked up from his papers gravely, his animated demeanor replaced with a stern solemnity.
“How do you respond, Dr. Singh, to these revelations?”
“This is no revelation,” Singh snapped. “As you just said, it is all over the Stream. I had many views as a young student that I no longer have now. I’m sure the same could be said of many people.”
“You must have changed somewhat, because only five years after this article was published, you gave birth to your first and only child, Maya. The same Maya Parrish who our viewers know was victim to a terrible tragedy years ago.”
An unpleasant knot tightened in Amira’s stomach and she took a drink, finding only bitter ice in her glass. She twisted back to the coffee table to pour another cranberry vodka, minus the cranberry.
When Singh offered no response, Harvey continued.
“Did you ever consider her, at the time, to be a shackle?”
D’Arcy gasped. Julian shook his head. The entire common area was silent, waiting breathlessly for Singh’s response.
The camera zeroed in on Singh’s face, which remained composed and firm.
“I will not take part in this distasteful circus,” she said coldly. “Since you clearly have no interest in the topic at hand, this interview is over.”
She smoothly removed the microphone from her collar and walked away.
“Holy shit,” Julian breathed as sporadic applause broke out in the common room.
“Of course they had to try to bring her down a peg,” D’Arcy fumed as she extracted herself from the tangle of bodies on the armchair. “And did Alistair Parrish get any of those questions? No, and he owns the project!”
The room was spinning, the floor swaying from side to side like a ship’s deck in turbulent waters. Amira’s glass was empty again – she needed to slow down. The noise of the chattering crowd, excitedly discussing what had just transpired, rang in her ears as she stood up. She reached sideways to the wall for balance, veering toward the entrance.
The remainder of the evening was a disconnected puzzle of lost hours, snapshots of time interspersed with periods of darkness. In one moment, she and D’Arcy argued heatedly behind the mossy walls of the Canary House.
“I can’t believe you’re defending what Julian said,” Amira remonstrated, loud and slurring.
“That’s not what I meant,” D’Arcy said. “All I said was that the way Valerie Singh was treated just now is what Julian was talking about. A powerful woman getting taken down a notch, it happens even in Westport.”
“You have no idea how good you’ve had it,” Amira said. She stumbled slightly, lifting her glass to keep it steady. “This city saved my life, but people here don’t understand….” She paused, fumbling for the right words.
“We’re your friends, Amira. Julian and I. We want you to be happy, we just think you tend to see things in black and white, and it’s going to hurt you.”
“Julian thinks he knows the compounds better than I do,” Amira said, raising her voice. “And you treat me like a child because you see me as one. Forever stunted by where I came from.”
“That’s not true, Amira!” D’Arcy said in a tearful voice.
“It is,” Amira said. “You take his side because you agree with him! You see me as a child. I’ll always just be that backwater compound girl, no matter what I do.”
She tore herself free from D’Arcy’s grip and marched down an alleyway. She drained the remaining contents of her glass, warm liquid spilling down the sides of her mouth. Distant shouts followed her along the canals on the way to Infinity Park. Instead of entering the park, she changed direction and stalked to the nearest subway station. A sharp smell of garbage greeted her at the entrance and she staggered to a trash can. She leaned over and vomited forcefully inside it. She followed the crowds to the Red line and stumbled onto the westbound train, ignoring the jeers and catcalls around her, before everything went dark again.
When Amira regained her senses, she felt eyes on her, though she could not make out faces through her blurry, unfocused vision. Someone was holding on to her arm and steering her forward, and she cooperated as best she could.
“Hadrian!” A young male voice called out. “We need your help.”
Someone placed her in a chair with a bottle of water in her hands, which she immediately, gratefully depleted. It had a distinct tangy flavor Amira recognized from other regrettable nights as Bottled Rehab, a popular brand of enhanced water designed to speed up sobriety and prevent hangovers. A second bottle found its way into her hands and as she continued to drink, the room came into focus. She was on Hadrian’s ship, in the main mezzanine near the entrance. Lee, the quiet teenager who ran Hadrian’s computers, hovered close by, watching her with solemn, paternal concern. Behind Lee, young teenagers of both sexes ran around the mezzanine, stumbling in fits of wild laughter across the hallways. Bottled Rehab was undoubtedly in perpetual demand on Hadrian’s ship.
“Our fearless visitor returns,” a familiar voice said, and Hadrian’s face suddenly loomed into her line of vision. He was wearing his contact lenses, his eyes red in the corners, and a security badge gleamed on his blue jacket, suggesting a recent return from NASH.
“How – how did I get here?” Amira asked, the words sticking in her throat.
“My boy Lee found you skulking around outside,” Hadrian cackled. “Letting your hair down tonight, love? Didn’t think you’d be the type to let the drink overpower you, but you look like a girl fresh out of the compound. Can’t hold your liquor after all this time in Westport?”
Amira opened her mouth to retort, but closed it as her stomach lurched and the room spun again.
“I’ll take her to one of the safe rooms,” Lee said, lifting Amira gently by her arms.
“It’s where we take the girls and the occasional bloke who’ve had too much, to keep them from making decisions they’ll regret more than a little,” Hadrian said with a smile, as Amira stepped forward carefully. “You need to sleep this one off.”
Through her inebriated haze, Amira smiled back.
“You’re not that bad, are you?” she asked dreamily, slumping against Lee.
“Don’t tell the others,” Hadrian said with a wink.
Amira, with significant support from Lee, passed a narrow entryway into the ship’s sleeping quarters. At the end of the hall, two older teenage girls stood side by side, one armed with what appeared to be a high-grade stun weapon, likely a gift from Hadrian’s NASH inventory. The girls nodded at Lee and stepped aside.
Through a cracked door, a young girl of about thirteen, still wearing her compound head-cover, sat on the edge of her bed and sobbed loudly. In the next room down the corridor, an older girl in a bright, sequined tube top lurched forward to slam the door but not b
efore revealing pinpoint-sized pupils behind cloudy eyes – the unmistakable effects of Elysium.
“All stages of life on display,” Amira murmured. She winced at her incoherence, but Lee seemed to understand her and nodded.
“Everyone’s excited when they first come here,” he said. “Then they try to be free for the first time, and it’s too much when you’ve never had it before, and the freedom scares them. Some go back and forth, between the old ways and the new.”
“And then you learn that the new world isn’t what you thought it was,” Amira said with bitterness. They had found an empty room and she collapsed onto the bed. “The perfect world that kept you going every night, that gave you the courage to escape, doesn’t exist and all you get are new battles to fight.”
The room was no longer spinning, but faces emerged and vanished in her mind’s eye – D’Arcy, Harrison Harvey, the twisted faces of angry demonstrators outside the Soma – and she swatted angrily at the air.
Lee sat on the end of the bed, eyes fixed downward.
“Rozene talked like that before she left,” he said. “She used to come here a lot, to the safe rooms. It was too wild for her out there. She left the Trinity because she wanted peace.”
“You care about her a lot, don’t you?” Amira asked softly, her voice teasing. “Were you in love with her?”
Lee’s ears turned pink. He fixed his gaze on the floor, the carpet patterned in colors reminiscent of vomit, of which the floors had undoubtedly seen plenty.
“I just want her to be happy,” he said. “She was my friend when she was here – she was kind even though she was unhappy. She deserves to be happy. Is she going to be ok?”