Dr. Leah Gibson’s place of business was unknown to the public. She traveled to this undisclosed location twice a week and stayed two days at a time before returning. Her vehicle could be seen making its way out of the metropolis on Mondays and Thursdays. Today, the route of choice led through the busy streets, congested with people walking, bicycling, or taking the bus to work and school. Trees, shrubs, and greenery of all kinds were abundant in the city and shaded the pedestrians on the streets from the harsh glare of the sun. Dr. Gibson drove through the crowds about ten miles until the city came to an abrupt halt. The road continued, maintained and used, but the landscape changed considerably—miles and miles of disintegrating and uninhabited neighborhoods. The walls of homes leaned wearily inward on each other. Here a chimney stood with a pile of rubble on the ground as the only other testament to the past existence of the rest of the building. Weeds and vines pushed up through cracked sidewalks. Roads lay broken, leading far away into an expanse of ruin and decay. Trees, shrubs and vines ran riot over wasted piles of crumbling drywall, rotting timber and fragmenting vinyl. Posted every mile sagged dilapidated signs with two words printed, “Reclaimed Land.” As Dr. Gibson drove along, the vegetation grew thicker around the old buildings. Vines wound up staircases and decks, disguising their shapes and changing them into fantastical green sculptures. And then, as if in a blink of an eye, the ruins were gone, swallowed up into forest, the transformation so subtle but certain, it was impossible to discern where the rubble had ended and the forest begun. There was Dr. Gibson’s car winding its way along a narrow road, the road and the car, the only man-made objects to be seen in hundreds of miles.
She continued for an hour, mile upon mile of forest. At last, a drive appeared to the left. Dr. Gibson turned her vehicle into it, following it another mile to a tall, heavily-guarded gate fortified with electric current and topped with razor wire. She rolled down the window as a guard approached the car.
“Hello, Doctor,” he said, smiling, “Thought I recognized your car.”
“Hello, Charlie,” Dr. Gibson returned.
“How you feeling? You look great.”
“Thanks. I’m alright.”
“Well, I’ll just get the gate opened for you.”
“Charlie!”
Her voice stopped him.
“You are going to ask for my ID, aren’t you?”
Her eyes were hard and unmoving.
“Oh, well…yeah. Uh, can I scan your chip?”
She calmly moved her arm closer to him and he passed a scanner above it.
“Okay, all set,” he said.
“You have to follow the protocols, Charlie,” she said, as the gate swung open. “Do it from now on. I like you and I don’t want to have to fire you.”
“Sorry, Doctor. It won’t happen again.”
“Good,” she smiled again. “I can’t tell you how important it is to follow the protocols. For everyone. No exceptions.”
“Sure, I’ll remember. You have a good day, Doctor.”
Dr. Gibson looked in her rearview mirror as she passed through the gate. Charlie still stared after her, smiling and flexing.
“Sweet dreams, pretty boy,” she muttered, under her breath.
Once through the gate, Gibson drove on another mile before her destination came into view—a huge, concrete building, in the shape of a perfect rectangle. Perfect measurements notwithstanding, the lack of windows on one side gave it an ill-proportioned look like some great giant with numerous eyes on the back of his head and none where they ought to be. She parked her car in the lot and pulled a suitcase out of her trunk. Swiping her card at the entrance, she walked inside. The place swarmed with activity. People milled about in business attire or scrubs toting suitcases, looking around in bewildered fashion. The receptionist at the main desk busily directed them to where they ought to go.
“Oh, good morning, Dr. Gibson,” she said, looking up and pressing the receiver of a telephone against her blouse to block the noise. “Your office and rooms were all freshly cleaned last night. So you can just kick up and relax if you want.”
“Thanks,” Gibson smiled. “I doubt I’ll have a chance, but thanks.”
“You look terrific, by the way. Hope I take it as well as you when my turn comes around.”
Gibson laughed and waved as she continued her walk.
“Hello, Cathy,” she said as she walked in her office.
Cathy looked up from her desk, pen in mouth, brow furrowed in concentration. The white scrubs she wore accentuated the rosiness of her round face.
“Morning, Doctor.”
Gibson opened a door that led to her bedroom, dumped her suitcase inside and smoothed her hair at the mirror.
“Only you could have a baby the old-fashioned way, be back to work a week later and still look that good, Dr. Gibson,” Cathy said from outside.
“Thanks, Cathy,” Gibson laughed and went back into the office, throwing some keys on the desk. She winced as she sat down. “We only get one try, you know, so I wanted the full experience.”
“Looks like you got it,” Cathy remarked.
“Oh, yes,” she smiled self-consciously.
“Was it worth it?”
“I think so. After everything was over and they gave him to me…I think it had to be one of the biggest thrills of my life.”
“Then he screamed all night long.”
“Oh, not my child! He didn’t make a peep.”
“I don’t believe it,” Cathy smirked, fingering a pen in her scrub’s pocket.
“Take it or leave it, then,” Gibson smiled. “But it’s true.”
“Why didn’t you take more time off? You could have.”
“I know, but everything’s lined up so perfectly here. I wanted to seize the opportunity to start the project before anything happened to delay it. I’ll be alright.”
Cathy shook her head and returned to her paperwork on the desk.
“Is everything all set for the meeting today?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’m afraid it’s going to be a long one.”
“When are you going to take everyone through the building for orientation?”
“We’ll do that first and let everyone get settled in. That’ll probably take most of the morning. After lunch, I’ll talk to the head doctors in the conference room and go through protocols and emergency strategies. Tomorrow, we’ll meet with everyone in the auditorium and give a briefing. You are taking this down, right Cathy?”
“Absolutely.”
Gibson sighed, twisting in her chair.
“I’ll be relieved only when I see things working smoothly. There are so many things that can go wrong.”
“I can’t imagine what,” Cathy returned. “You’ve planned this all to the letter.”
“Yes, but I can’t program people,” Gibson said. “People throw wrenches in the works.”
“But they’ve been trained so thoroughly. They’re the best.”
“Even the best can make mistakes. They can succumb to sentimental weakness, even me,” Gibson said. “The surrogates—some could back out at the last minute. Legally, I have to give them the opportunity.”
Cathy turned around from her desk work and looked hard at Dr. Gibson.
“What’s wrong with you today? You almost seem rattled.”
“I’m fine.”
“It’s Jacob, isn’t it? He’s been bothering you.”
“Oh, no…”
“Yes, it is,” Cathy said. “I know you too well.”
Dr. Gibson’s face darkened, “He came to see me a couple weeks ago. I hate the way he sits in the house. He leans back, so relaxed and calm, so pleased with himself. He folds his hands and smiles at me. He never gets angry. But he never recognizes me for who I am. It’s never Dr. Gibson, it’s always ‘Leah’ or ‘my dear.’ And the whole time, he’s laughing at me, mocking me.”
“And why should you care?” Cathy retorted. “You’re the one with the PhD, doing something amazing with your life. What has he ever done?”
“He does play the trumpet beautifully. He’s a beautiful man, when it comes down to it.”
“Pfftt! So what? You don’t have to see him.”
“I know. But for some reason, I feel compelled to see him when he calls me. I wish he’d stay away and play with his boyfriends.”
“You need to tell him to get lost. If it’s Shane he wants to see, you know he doesn’t have a legal leg to stand on.”
“I know,” she said, her brow still furrowed.
“Don’t even waste a thought on him,” Cathy urged. “He’s done his job, and now he has no place in your life. You’re a brilliant woman. How can a brilliant woman like yourself let such a ridiculous person bother you?”
“It’s silly of me,” Dr. Gibson shook herself and sat up straight. “You’re right. I’m going to put him out of my mind.”
“Good,” Cathy nodded. “Now, go ahead and sign these papers. They’ve been waiting for you all morning.”
…
The building was fitted out to perfection for the task it would perform. The doctors, the nurses, the research team, even maintenance and the janitor knew what was expected. They were the best in their fields. They had all spent years of their lives training for this job even after finishing their masters and doctorates. But now it was time to put theory into practice. Over the next week, they met with Dr. Gibson and went over every possible worst-case scenario--power failures, natural disasters, medical emergencies. When it was all said and done, they leaned back in their office chairs looking satisfied, smiling at one another. The building contained everything they needed, whether it be a well-stocked kitchen or an operating room with a surgeon on hand at all times.
According to schedule, the surrogates arrived, one hundred healthy young women, eager to aid the cause of humanity. They were, that is, until they woke from the drug induced stupor it was necessary to put them in on the trip to keep the location a secret. They stared around bleakly as they sat up in their beds. White walls, white ceilings, white floors, white beds, white sheets, white towels, white soap, white uniforms to wear, white everything.
“There may be no talking, no whistling, no singing, no radios, no TV, no phone calls,” Gibson explained. “It is absolutely imperative that the subjects be kept isolated from as much outside stimuli as possible.”
There were no windows or natural lighting. There could be no noise but a low, pervasive humming--almost like a generator but pulsating regularly like a heartbeat.
“If any of you want to leave, you are free to go now,” Dr. Gibson assured them.
She stood in front of them, tall and pretty, immaculately dressed. They looked at her in awe. She adjusted her glasses impatiently before continuing.
“You all understand, I’m sure, that you’ll be reimbursed for the time you spend here away from work. You will want for nothing, and it might be tempting to look at this as some kind of vacation. But don’t kid yourselves. It’s not going to be easy living in a setting like this for nine months. Once the subject is implanted, though, you have to see your part of the bargain through. And you can’t get attached to it. I can’t stress that enough. You have to leave it behind and completely put these nine months out of your head.”
“What’s the subject?” asked a timid-looking girl.
“The fetus,” Gibson returned, the heels of her pointed shoes clicking on the hard floor as she shifted her weight from the left foot to the right. “Didn’t read the pamphlet when you were recruited?”
“Well, I skimmed it. I, uh…I just wanted some extra cash.”
“Well, it’s a fetus.”
“Then the…the…”
“Subject,” Dr. Gibson contributed.
“…the subject will grow up in this place?” the girl asked, looked around in distaste.
“Not grow up. Develop.”
“It doesn’t seem right, though, to keep a child here against its will.”
“Subject,” Dr. Gibson repeated. “It won’t have a will. Let me ask you a question. When does a fetus become a human?”
“I don’t know.”
“Precisely. We don’t even know when an infant becomes a human. What we do know is that when a mother holds her baby for the first time, a bond begins to grow between them. As the baby grows up, it learns to smile, laugh, walk, talk. It can see the sun coming up in the morning and going down in the evening. It lives in a world of stimulation. The environment we come into at birth is what makes us humans, nothing more and nothing less. We are only human beings insomuch as we are conditioned to be human. Children have mothers. The subjects will not. The subjects will have no knowledge of a mother, only this place. The subjects will not be human.”
“Won’t they be sad?” her eyes welled up with tears.
“No! Sweetheart, I don’t believe you’re catching my drift. The subjects will have no human interaction. They will never learn to communicate. We want to keep their minds as empty as possible so they won’t experience anything like emotions, pleasant or sad.”
She paused a minute.
“But ladies, if this experiment is successful, it will mean enormous strides forward in science and healthcare. It could mean everything to your own, wanted child in the future. Try to imagine a world where diseases and defects and untimely deaths due to organ failure or injury have been…I won’t say eradicated. I’m not that idealistic. But I have great hopes that they will become very close to nonexistent. They’ll be one in a million instead of one in a hundred. Can you imagine it? Can you sacrifice nine months of your life for that? I have. I have a little baby at home that I wish I could see every day, but I have to be here. Sometimes he doesn’t recognize me when I come home. I have to remember that I’m doing it for him, yes, but ultimately for humanity.”
Dr. Gibson looked straight at her questioner. The girl put her head down and stared at the floor. She was the only one that took Dr. Gibson up on the offer to leave.
“Look, it’s alright,” Dr. Gibson told her, giving her arm a little squeeze. “It’s going to be tough spending most of a year in the ward. Nobody blames you for wanting to leave. But you need to sign this paper. It’s a legally binding nondisclosure agreement.”
The girl took her arm away, looking steadily in the doctor’s eyes. She turned, signed the security waver, and walked out.
“I can’t believe some people,” Gibson stormed to Cathy in the office later that day. “You’d think with such a life-changing decision in front of her, the little idiot would read the information we provided for her at the outset. Then she has the nerve to look at me like I’m some kind of monster. I mean, we are living at the end of the twenty-first century right? What problem could she possibly have had with what I said? Superstitions, religions, diseases! They’re all the same.”
“Dr. Gibson,” Cathy soothed, “calm down. You have no way to know what her motivations were. Even if they were what you suspect, why should that bother you? We will always have ignorance and irrational beliefs to contend with. You know that. It’s part and parcel of a scientist’s job.”
Dr. Gibson sighed and nodded.
“Just keep doing the work, steady as you go. Eventually, it’ll die out. Remember? One in a million instead of one in a hundred?”
Gibson smiled.
“You’re always right, Cathy.”
The surrogates had one week to become oriented to their new style of living. They were provided with books of all kinds to read and even close-captioned movies to watch. But no sound was allowed. Stashed everywhere around the ward were writing tablets, and they practiced communicating their needs and wishes through the written word rather than speaking. They caught on quickly. By the end of the week, the instinctive blurtings that caused so much embarrassment at the beginning simply did not happen anymore.
At week two, the doctors implanted the embryos and silence reigned in the ward. Nine months of silence. Silence during meals, silence during their daily walks around the premises, silence even during medical examinations. Everything was communicated through markers on whiteboards, pens on paper, or text messages back and forth on cell phones whose sounds had been permanently disabled.
Multiple embryos had been implanted in each woman to ensure that at least one or more would prove viable. The women were closely monitored during the first trimester and the less healthy embryos were aborted leaving only one behind in the womb.
At the end of the gestation period, the women each underwent a C-section. The subjects were removed immediately in as much silence as possible and placed in the ward, while the women were sent to a recovery unit. At this point, separated from the subjects, they were permitted to speak, make telephone calls, or watch television. By the end of one week they were released, looking relieved but listless. They would undergo counseling for a while to help them readjust to civilian life. They left fifty subjects behind. No one expected all one hundred to come to full term. In fact, fifty was more than Dr. Gibson had hoped for. The first phase was over.
It was at this point that Dr. Gibson stayed as far away from the ward as possible. She came inside once after all the subjects had been born. Standing just inside the door, she surveyed the rows of incubators. She dug a writing tablet out of her lab coat pocket, scribbled something on it, and held it up to Cathy.
“Which one is Shane’s?” it read.
“27,” was Cathy’s scribbled response.
At incubator 27, little feet waved in the air, but that was all that was visible to Cathy and Dr. Gibson’s eyes. Gibson motioned Cathy to follow her. Once the door to the ward was safely shut and locked, Gibson spoke.
“I won’t be coming into the ward again, Cathy. I don’t think it’s wise. Our emotions can play all kinds of tricks on us. My head needs to be as clear and free of distractions as possible for this thing to work. And it must work. Too much depends on it. “
Cathy nodded.
“I’ll keep very close tabs on everything from my office. Every day I want a full and detailed report from each of the techs that have to go into the ward. I’ve instructed that they report to you. Then you report to me. Understood?”
“Yes.”
Now, the real work began. The subjects had to be fed, clothed, changed, taught to walk and dress themselves without any significant human interaction. It was tricky, but an elaborate system had been devised long ago to deal with the situation, and it worked. At first it was hard not to pick the subjects up and comfort them when they cried, but everyone knew that their adherence to the plan was vital to the grand scheme of things. Over the next few days, the subjects stopped crying one by one, and that made things easier.
At night, a bell rang when the lights went out. In the morning, a bell rang when the lights turned on again. In trouped the staff, gowned and gloved, wearing surgical masks. They changed the diapers and gave the subjects their bottles without speaking, eye contact, or taking them out of their beds. A bell rang, and they left. There was a bell for every feeding and diaper change, a bell for waking, and a bell for sleeping.
Fifteen years passed. Those first fifteen years were a monumental effort for all the staff. They gave each of the subjects a number with which they referred to them, starting with one and ending in fifty. After the subjects reached the age of two, no one went into the ward. Robotic technology was employed at this point. Each subject had a Bot assigned to it with a corresponding number title. Subject 1 had Bot 1, Subject 2, Bot 2 and so on. The ward was monitored twenty-four hours a day so that the staff could watch the subjects’ interaction with each other and the Bots. The Bots were operated through commands typed into the computers on the other side of the wall by the vigilant staff members. The Bots provided stability when the subjects were learning to walk or dress themselves without the dangers of the warmth of a human hand. The subjects developed without learning to talk or interacting with each other. Touch and eye contact was strictly prohibited between the subjects. If any of that behavior was exhibited, a command was quickly typed into the computer and the Bot assigned to that subject raced from an immobile position at the side of the ward to correct it. By the age of five, all of them had learned to move with eyes inclined to the floor, arms at the side. The bell was the only language they understood and responded to. Before the onset of puberty, the girls and boys were separated for obvious reasons. By year fifteen, matters were well in hand and progressing nicely. Then came that little matter of 27.