July 11, 187 a.G.R. (20 years earlier)

  Julius

  The dark door with the numberal 1 laser-etched into it slides sideways into the wall right in front of us.

  Behind it, waiting, is my father—white lab coat as always, “Prof. Chandler Moore” printed in red across the chest. He’s proud of it.

  He has this habit of wearing it buttoned all the way up to the throat, hiding the director’s uniform underneath—as if he’d rather no one see what he really is.

  “Follow me,” he says.

  His white hair looks more rumpled than usual.

  Beside me, Kailey lets out a small, quiet breath. I squeeze her hand and brush my palm over the gentle curve of her belly—barely visible beneath the tight white off-duty suit.

  We step through the threshold, crossing the words printed on the floor:

  GENETICS LAB 1

  LED strips run under the ceiling, and the floor reflects it like polished glass.

  To the left, a long bank of computers with technicians in white coats working in silence. To the right, a glass-walled container holds three operators bent over a jointed mechanical arm.

  A man about to enter the container dips his head toward us.

  “Goodlife to you and your guests, Professor.”

  Dad returns the bow.

  “Goodlife to you, Tomasz.”

  Kailey and I follow the greeting.

  Tomasz swipes his Personal over the reader beside the door, and the door slides into the wall. Before he can pass, a sterilization chamber activates, wrapping him in a cloud of light and faint vapor.

  I meet Kailey’s eyes. She offers a fragile smile. Worried—still hopeful.

  Those eyes give me the strength to risk our son’s life.

  The corridor ends at a second door. Beyond it, another, tighter passage with four doors—two on each side—all with biometric recognition.

  Following my father, we pass the first two: on the left, “Embryos.” On the right, “Embryo Simulator.”

  Kailey’s grip tightens around my hand.

  “It’s okay,” I whisper.

  Dad stops at the second door on the right. Above it:

  “Preimplantation.”

  “Dad,” I say, stopping him, “before we go in—thank you. For everything you’re doing.”

  A full, sincere smile spreads across his face.

  “I’m not doing anything extraordinary.” He pauses with his arm half-raised before triggering the biometric scan. “Just what a parent should do for their family’s happiness.”

  “Yeah, but if something goes wrong…”

  He turns to me, clearly trying to steady me.

  “It won’t. The simulations have been perfect. Every day ten women undergo embryo screening and more than half receive genetic edits. Failures are practically nonexistent.”

  I rise onto my toes, close to his ear.

  “Dad—we’re not here to choose Isaac’s sex.”

  Pride lights his face.

  “So you picked the name.”

  “Yes.”

  He smiles again, triggers the biometric scan, and the door opens.

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  We follow him into the lab—two connected rooms, both without windows. LED strips run under the ceiling and along the white walls. In the first room, a small white lightplex desk sits near a couple of rolling chairs, and a large silver station is built around a reclining chair. Beyond a wide opening, the second room is smaller and bare.

  Kailey stays silent, eyes down, and gives my hand a small tug.

  I lift her chin with my index finger.

  “Dad knows what he’s doing.”

  Two young male assistants are waiting beside the reclining chair. The blond one on the left is taller; the other has his hair shaved down to almost nothing.

  “Goodlife, Kailey and Julius.”

  “Goodlife,” I answer. Kailey’s is barely more than a whisper.

  “Everything ready?” my father asks them.

  In unison: “Yes, Professor.”

  Then he takes Kailey’s free hand and kisses it.

  An old-world gesture.

  “I would never put you at risk,” he says. “Isaac deserves to be born, and I—unlike most people—have the means to get around an unjust law.”

  A stronger smile appears on Kailey’s face.

  Me? I’m terrified, and I can’t show it.

  Dad points to a dark alcove set into the far-left wall.

  “You can go in there. You’ll find everything you need to get comfortable.”

  I walk her over. The light snaps on as we arrive.

  “I can do it on my own,” she says, letting go of my hand.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  I stay outside, shoulders against the wall, watching my father prep the machine. With his experience, he could’ve run all of Sector 4. Instead he keeps choosing the field—day after day.

  From the small dressing alcove, I hear the zipper open and close more than once.

  My father instructs his assistants—what to do, where to stand—and he does it like they’re equals.

  A sudden sound makes me jump. I turn.

  Kailey is back out.

  “Did I scare you?”

  I force a smile. “No.”

  Her hair is pulled into a high ponytail. Her cheeks are flushed, and her gaze drops again.

  “You okay?”

  Her hand trembles at the zipper. “I couldn’t close it… it’s a double zipper—it’s weird.” With her other hand, she scratches her ear.

  I take her hand and stroke it.

  “Breathe. Let’s go.”

  My father sees us and gestures to the reclining chair.

  “Come, my dear.”

  Kailey sits. Comfortable. I stay at her side, still holding her hand.

  The shorter assistant activates the machine, then runs a palm over his cropped brown hair like it’s a reflex. The arm moves on its own and, after a brief scan, positions itself above Kailey’s belly.

  A holographic display flickers on above us.

  A 3D projection blooms over Kailey’s belly, perfectly aligned to her body—mapped in place like an overlay.

  It shifts subtly in real time, synced to the scan.

  “Last check,” my father says.

  “Okay,” Kailey answers, the hint of a smile returning.

  The fetal image appears—at least I think that’s what it is.

  My father highlights a point on the screen.

  “He’s doing well.”

  Then he looks at us.

  “The final decision is yours.”

  I trade a glance with Kailey. Then I nod to my father. She follows.

  Together, in one breath:

  “We want it.”

  Simple words—loaded with the weight of what we’re about to break.

  A hand lands on my shoulder—the taller assistant.

  “You should step back now.”

  I release Kailey’s hand and move away from the machine.

  My father pulls on a visor; the shorter assistant hands him a portable sanitizer unit and he inserts his hands. 10 seconds—green light.

  He can operate.

  The chair reclines and unfolds into an exam bed. Then the taller assistant gently sets a mask over Kailey’s mouth and nose. I blink twice and she’s already in a deep sleep.

  “Load the DNA,” my father orders.

  Beside the machine is a port. The shorter assistant inserts a vial. The liquid is drawn in—and at the same instant, a progress bar appears on the screen.

  I realize I’ve been holding my breath. I let it out slowly, careful not to disturb anything.

  The machine shifts again, adapting to Kailey’s body. Supports rise under her legs, forcing them into position. A robotic arm extends a needle so fine it’s almost invisible. Other mechanisms part her suit from the belly down along hidden seams.

  Everything moves in perfect synchronization.

  I don’t think I can watch more. I’m too wound tight. I lock my eyes on the floor and wait.

  60 seconds feels like a lifetime.

  “We’re there,” my father says.

  I find the courage to look up.

  On-screen: a storm of incomprehensible data. Then a hiss—impossible to tell if it’s good or bad.

  My father’s back is to me, visor still on. I search the assistants’ faces for an answer.

  Pointless.

  Anxiety eats through me. My father taps his foot.

  What does that mean?

  Then—

  “We did it!” he bursts out.

  I lunge forward. “Really?”

  A lump rises in my throat and stings my eyes.

  He points at the screen.

  “Look.”

  I start crying, and through my sobs I manage:

  “As if I understand any of that.”

  Dad removes the visor. His eyes are wet too.

  “The edited DNA integrated with the baby’s. The values are perfect.” After a beat: “Two more weeks and it would’ve been too late.”

  I step closer.

  “I never doubted you.”

  He smiles. “Liar.”

  “I’m serious.”

  He pats my arm and shoves me aside. “I know.”

  I nod.

  “You’re pretty strong for an old man.”

  We all laugh. We need it—to burn off the tension we’ve been holding like a blade.

  After a few seconds, I get serious again.

  “My fear is that someone finds out. You’d be the first to pay. Your career—your life.”

  He places both hands on my shoulders.

  “One day we’ll change these rules.”

  He clears his throat, choked with emotion.

  “We’ll change everything.”

  I nod again, and Dad brushes a hand over my cheek.

  “What we did today,” he continues, “is only the first step toward a different future… a better one.”

  I look back at Kailey. She smiles in her sleep.

  Maybe she’s dreaming of that future.

  And I promise myself I’ll do whatever it takes to make it real.