Perfect Flaw (24 page)

***

A loud siren woke Ninah with a jolt. Both Administrator Lucas and Doctor Chadwick stood in the doorway to the tiny room staring at the dazed figure. “When you have eaten, the Transport Ship will take you to Kappa Town where your new life will commence,” the grey-robed man announced, in what was for him almost a gentle tone. “I’m afraid it will take several hours for your memory to adjust. We cannot avoid that. Do not be too long getting ready.”

Ninah looked down, as if from a great distance, at the body that had been resculptured and completely reformed during the night by the nanites still working within it.

He screamed.

TOMORROW’S CHILDREN

BY DELPHINE BOSWELL

It is now thirteen years since the 9.5 magnitude quake occurred on March 3, 2078, the largest quake to hit North America, destroying most of the state of California with the exception of the Monterey Peninsula. Although the quake only lasted fourteen to sixteen seconds, it managed to kill almost all of the 36,000,000 people who resided there. Life would never be the same. The joyful noises I had known turned to a deadening silence. My home of light and love had turned into a sanctuary of ash. Broken pieces, broken lives.

My name is Adhara Canis Major, named after stars in the galaxy; I am a reporter for the “Domicile Daily “and one of the ones lucky enough to have survived the ordeal without a scratch. What did remain of the peninsula floated out into the Pacific, soon to become known as the Island of Domicile, a damp, foggy, and windy mass of land outlined by a rocky seacoast. Add to this, there is a terrible undertow right off shore and a swarming group of Great Whites. There is no use for our pocket optic-audios here or our supersonic speed messaging as the towers were destroyed during the quake; hence, there is no use in trying to make contact with the rest of the world. Truly, Domicile is an isolated swell of land in the middle of nowhere.

After the initial shock of the quake wore off, people on Domicile grappled about in a state of confusion and uncertainty. Many expressions appeared glazed and almost mesmerized, not knowing what to do, not knowing how to cope. There were many who had lost family and friends. I recalled seeing two women huddled together, crying. Strangers reached out to strangers. As if by some God-like quirk, the Community Hospital of Monterey, a Trader Joe’s, a couple of Seven-Elevens, and one elementary school remained standing, totally intact, suggesting that the quake might have been a mere mirage. Several soldiers guarded the doors to the quick-food places as people waited in lines for supplies. Despite the limited quantities, there was no pushing or shoving as I remembered how people were before the quake. I heard people saying, “Thank you,” and “God bless you.” Someone raised an American flag. Out of tragedy arose altruism as the survivors spoke to one another about how grateful they were to be alive.

Over the next few weeks, however, much of the camaraderie and good will was exhausted. I saw a group of men pilfering; their arms filled with Hostess cupcakes, loaves of bread, and cans of soup.

“What in the hell gives you the right to think you can just up and steal what little is left?” one older man said to the thief. One of the robbers struck the elderly man with the end of a broken tree branch; blood dripped from an open head wound.

Like dogs playing tug-o-war, I saw two, young women arguing over the contents of a bag. “You, little bitch. It’s mine,” said one; the other scratched the woman across her face, leaving bloody gauges.

Eventually, after months of seeing the Domicilians responding more to their emotions than to rational thought or logic, when things seemed to get as bad as they could, a group of military men, from what was the former Naval Postgraduate School, as well as some soldiers from what was the Presidio of Monterey, came forth stating the importance of forming a government that could run and control the outbursts of the people.

On a negative note, the new government, known as a Napocracy, run by the Napos, or National Association of Patrolling Officers, resulted in anarchy. Some believe the Napocracy provides them with freedom—freedom from having to make choices, to bear responsibilities. To me, I view the government as oppressive. And, perhaps, the worse example of this came the day the Napocracy enforced the Anti-Conception Law to prevent the population of Domicile from growing and established the Cryopreservation Center, demanding that children be frozen until a time when the government deemed it necessary to reestablish the society.

It was then that Gemma my supervisor at the “Domicile Daily” asked me to write a story on the influx of children to the Cryopreservation Center. People were lining the asphalt walks leading up to the doors, and parents who were both angry and saddened to be offering up their children to be frozen, were getting into verbal altercations. I was asked to go down to the Center to speak with those who were waiting, to get their stories, and to write up a column. It’s paradoxical, really, in that Gemma wants public-interest pieces, but yet she doesn’t want anything published that goes against what the government dictates. “We agree for the betterment of all,” she keeps saying to me.

When I arrived at the Center, I found myself surrounded by crying infants; restless, whining children; and parents who obviously were beginning to lose their tempers. A heavy rain fell and large black clouds hung low, adding to the dismal picture I stared over. The people were drenched. I chose not to bring an umbrella as I wanted them to see me as one with them. “Hello,” I said. “My name is Adhara Canis Major; I’m a reporter for the ‘Domicile Daily,’ and I’m writing a column. Could I speak to you for a moment?”

The woman I addressed frowned. Her face was wet, her hair dripping onto her collar. Her black dress and white apron were soaked, and her black oxfords stood in a huge puddle. “What is it that you want to know?” She held the hands of two toddlers who appeared to be around three- and four-years of age. Both of the children were crying and trying to find shelter in the folds of the woman’s dress. Periodically, they would peek out and stare at me with their big, round eyes.

“How long have you been standing here, waiting to get into the Center?” I asked.

“Six hours, maybe more. My children are hungry. . . thirsty. . .cold.”

“Understandable. This is a terrible day to be outside. Have you been offered any umbrellas or cover-ups?”

“Really? Did you expect that the Napos would be that considerate?”

“What’s the reason for the hold-up? Have you been told?” I assumed some explanation had been given to the women.

“It’s a process, a Napo told us. First come, first serve. They say that with so many freezers beginning to start up at the same time that it has caused some power outages.”

That explained the grinding coming from the building, like an engine trying to start when the batteries had almost but given out. The noise would stop momentarily, and then start up again.

“Must you wait? Can’t you return when the issue is resolved?”

“To start all over again? To wait in this line, to lose my place?”

I continued to jot down what the woman was telling me. It was clear that there was no system in place regarding the processing of children and, worse yet, the Center could not handle the amount of voltage that was required to run so many freezer units. I wondered why someone hadn’t considered this before now, but, then again, the Anti-Conception Law and the Cryopreservation Center were issues that had come up quite abruptly once the government decided that something had to be done immediately to stall population growth.

I looked at the woman’s two children. I could see the fright in their eyes. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like inside the Center when the children were to be pulled from their parents arms, screaming and hollering in hysteria. I thanked the woman for her time and offered her my compassion.

Then, I stopped another woman who looked to be much less stressed. She placed her weight on one foot and fingered the rope around her waist, using it to wipe the rain off her face. Her child, probably eleven or twelve, played with some type of game that involved black tiles with red dots. He arranged them and rearranged them on the pavement. He attempted to wipe them dry with his wet uniform shirt and placed them back in position.

I introduced myself to the child’s mother and asked her what her feelings were about having her only child frozen.

“Maybe, this sounds heartless to you, Ma’am. It’s obvious from the tattoo on your forehead that your position on Domicile pays well and that you are one of the intellectuals here. It’s not like that for me.” She brushed her soaking hair off of her forehead and revealed a tattoo in the shape of a large “A,” which stood for “mentally incapable.” I assumed that meant that she worked for the Napos in a servant-type capacity, not thought to have the intelligence to handle anything more challenging.

“I know what your insignia means, but I’m not sure I understand how your position makes it any easier for you to turn your child over to the government,” I said.

She moved closer to me, within inches of my face, looked me directly in the eyes and said, “I need the money, lady.”

“Money?”

At the sound of the word, two women ahead in line began to push each other; one woman pulled the other’s hair that was pinned behind her ears. Their children looked on like gawking birds.

I excused myself from the woman I had been speaking to and rushed to the side of the site. “Please, please, stop. “What’s wrong?”

“This bitch here called me a fuckin’ whore.”

Two of the children covered their ears with the palms of their hands.

“She’s full of shit. I never said such a thing.”

I tried to push myself between them and held up my arms. I explained who I was and told them that I would appreciate hearing their stories—both sides.

The second woman spoke. “You see this kid at her side? It’s the sixth kid she has brought to the center.”

I couldn’t quite understand why that would matter or of what concern it would be to the woman. I must have had a confused look on my face.

“Don’t you get it?”

I shook my head.

“The more children, the more money. Why this idiot could care less what’s happening to these kids.”

At this point, the first woman put her hands in fists and started pounding on the woman’s shoulders.

Before I could stop the fighting, a Napo carrying a large black umbrella, who had apparently been working his way through the line, stopped, grabbed the angry woman by her arm, and threw her to the ground. “You see the end of the line? Get your ass over there.”

Her children followed her like sheep.

I saluted the Napo, the required form of respect for authority, and explained who I was. I thought he might be a better person to ask as to what was occurring here.

By this time the woman causing the grief had done what the officer demanded.

The other woman kept repeating, “It’s not fair. Something should be done.”

“What does she mean?” I asked the Napo.

He adjusted his grey cap with his free hand and cocked his head in an arrogant poise, complete to his right eyebrow raising. “It’s quite simple. The woman with the six children stands to make herself quite a bundle.”

“I hope I’m misunderstanding you.”

“No. You’re getting it just fine. Six children equal $150,000.”

“This can’t be. The woman is selling her children to the government for $25,000 a child?” I could hear my voice rise.

“Quick math skills, you have, Miss Adhara.”

I felt myself lightheaded and suddenly queasy. I grabbed for one of the handrails along the walk.

“I told you. Six kids by six different men. She could care less about the kids. And, to make matters worse, she’s making money off of them,” the second woman said.

I glanced at the Napo. “But, isn’t this exploitation? How can the government buy children only to freeze them?” I couldn’t believe what I had said; it was so out-of-character for me to risk asserting myself in this way.

“Why not?” the Napo said, in a sarcastic voice. “Do you think this broad really cared about her kids to begin with?”

“That’s not the question,” I said.

“She’s nothing more than a fucking whore,” the Napo said. “My guess is probably fifty percent of these women in line are no different.”

The second woman nodded her head. “That’s what I tried to tell the journalist here.”

“I’m still confused. Even if she didn’t care for her children, why would the government be interested in buying them?”

“It’s all part of the plan.”

“Huh?” was all I could say.

“Someday there will be those who will pay good money to have a child of their own, and when they do, the government and the children will be ready,” the Napo said. “You see, it really is a win-win situation.”

I could not believe what I was hearing. Not only was the government demanding that children be taken from their parents and frozen until who knew when, but the Napos would, in the long run, actually be making money in the transaction. I could not help but ask myself what life had come to, when children were viewed as nothing more than a commodity and, worse yet, as a means to an unthinkable end.

I excused myself. I had more than enough information to write my article. But. . .there was no way that I could. In my heart, I knew what was being asked of these suffering women. It was cruel and unforgivable. I knew that the buying and selling of children for whatever purpose was appalling and hideous. Yet to expound on either of these issues would mean that I would be immediately sent to solitary confinement if not the Assisted Suicide Center. I wanted nothing more than to speak out, to make sure my voice was heard. I went back to my office, but the helplessness I felt prevented me from beginning my article. I could only think about the women and their children, waiting in snake-like lines as the rain poured down on them; perhaps, for some of them, washing their guilt down the drain, and for others washing away their sadness