New Orbit Magazine Online: Issue 03, June 2018

The editor discusses an
unexpected common theme
that sprung up through this
issue and recent global news.
Once we discover the longsought
after key to traversing
the past, will mankind’s
meddling create a fallout we
can’t survive?
Long relegated to the science
fiction page and screen, we
look at the real-world
applicability of time travel.
Lee Murray’s highly
emotional piece on
parenthood, love, and the
future of family.
Will your child be the next
April? We discuss real-life
gene editing, PGD and
human genetic engineering
present in the world today.
A fascinating look at
censorship, the death
penalty, and corporate
dictatorship in a surprisingly
relatable but terrifying future.

Luxury, lies, and a new
breed of identity theft. This
gorgeous story puts a
uniquely female perspective
on a near-future anxiety.
Our responsibility to the
future is imperative to every
aspect of this magazine. Our
statement can be found
here.
Stephanie Bretherton
accompanies Human Error
with some beautiful
thoughts on writing, the
future, some of her story’s
themes, and some words
about upcoming novel Dear
Mr. Darwin.
The voluntary isolation that
some of us employ as a
reaction to social, societal,
and relationship conflicts is
taken to one logical
conclusion in this story, in
which one man lives alone
with his watch.

_____________
It was long after selecting and
compiling the works that would be
featured in this issue of New Orbit
Magazine that I realised that, contrary
to the normal spread, all but one had
been penned by female authors. This
created an interesting lens through
which to read the stories, and the
connections (or lack thereof) between
them, after having taken them in
without consideration of any kind of
common thread. Hitler and the Rabbit
and Ctrl+Alt+Del both cover what I
would consider to be human, not
gendered concerns – largely
parenthood, fear of the unknown, and
self-preservation. Forecast for April and
especially our wonderful featured story,
Human Error, put a very specific female
perspective on what are already
frightening concepts, giving words to
concerns that many female readers will
identify with and creating a wider
understanding for some male readers
that may not have had comparable
experiences.
The one story with a male author
stands out, not necessarily because of
the author (who I very much doubt

shares his creation’s ideology), but because of its
content. A Hermit and his Watch is a day with
a man who considers himself too intellectually
superior and yet socially awkward to integrate
himself into society and relationships like a
“normal” person. On second glance (or third,
or fourth, or fifth, given the number of times I
have read this issue cover to cover), his attitude
shares some striking similarities with the
relatively new social subculture and, as of the
last couple of years, brand of terrorist, emerging
largely in internet circles rather than in-person
interactions – the “incel”, or “involuntary
celibate”. These are groups of boys and men
who blame their inability to foster romantic or
sexual relationships with women on
increasingly bizarre, misogynist and dangerous
scapegoats, such as female intellectual
inferiority, the existence of “Chads” (attractive,
socially competent males) in a world where
women have the authority to make partner
selections of their own accord, and, far-fetched
as it might sound, the lack of a social or
governmental system of ranked pairing of men
and women based on some universal scale of
attractiveness, or “enforced monogamy”.
Unlike the protagonist of A Hermit and his
Watch, whose self-importance and entitlement
manifests in a relatively innocent (and for the
most part non-gendered) way, the Venn
diagram of internet subculture sees the incel
circle cross over with many other dangerous
schools of thought, including white
supremacy/neo-Nazism, toxic ideals of
masculinity, and the condoning of what most
would consider excessive use of force or
violence. Several recent acts of terror in the
West have been undertaken under the incel
banner or following its ideology – in the past
few months alone, a self-labelled incel ploughed
through a group of predominantly female
pedestrians in a van in Toronto, killing ten,
after posting a Facebook status claiming “the
Incel Rebellion has already begun!”, and an
American 17 year old orchestrated a mass
shooting at his Texas high school, also killing
ten, sparked by his desire to “punish” a popular
female student for rejecting the most recent of
his repeated advances in front of his classmates.
This is far from an issue themed around
stories pertaining to womanhood and feminism
(though this is absolutely an idea we will be
exploring in the future), but the prevalence of
relevant thought despite an active seeking-out
of theme is an indicator of how important such
ideas are to the writers, readers and everyone
else of this day and age, moving into the future.
I invite you, dear readers, to keep an eye open
in this and any other issue for the way these
stories and their contexts connect to today’s
struggles and big news stories, even in
unexpected or unintuitive ways. You never
know which direction the future might use for
its approach.
Happy musing,
Naomi Moore
Editor and Founder of New Orbit Magazine

_____________
The TV screen at the end of the bar had
dissolved into fizzing static. Rick winced and
switched it off, after it let out an electronic
squawk. Now he could hear the laughter and
loud conversation through the open windows
from the tables outside, where two of the village
cricket teams were enjoying the sunshine.
Mistrustful of an English summer, the three
old men at the bar had retained their yearround
uniform of trousers and long-sleeved
checked shirts. Win Reilly was even wearing a
woollen vest over his shirt. He leaned in to talk
to Rick. “I’m telling you, you ought to turn this
place into a gastropub. You’d be raking it in.”
Cara came out of the kitchen with a tray of
clean glasses, and saw the black TV screen.
“Oh no,” she said with mock dismay. “Now
I’m going to miss Dancing with the Stars.”
Rick snorted. “How about you dance on
outside and clear the tables?” he said. “That
lot’s on their third round.”
Cara picked up an empty tray and did a
couple of showy pirouettes with it on the way to
the door, then paused and threw Rick an
elaborate curtsy. He gave her a brief round of
applause. She stopped to hold the door open
for Terry Hughes and his wife Amelia before
she went outside. Terry came up to the bar in
front of Rick, then looked back for Amelia. She
had stopped in the middle of the room and was
holding her phone up, turning in a slow circle.
“Your reception’s terrible in here, Rick,” she
said.
“It’s all that eighteenth-century brick, love,”
he said with a grin.
“I’ll just pop outside and check the babysitter
hasn’t texted,” she said to her husband, and
went out the door, phone in hand.
Terry nodded to the old men and pulled
himself onto a stool next to them. “If the
babysitter doesn’t text an update every five

minutes she thinks the world’s going to end.”
He turned to Rick. “Pint of Guinness, and a
half of cider for the lady,” he said.
Tim Stanton was shaking his head at Win.
“Now, if this place was going to be a gastropub,
it’d need one of them great big kitchens, yeah?
Where would they put that? Rick’d have to buy
up next door and start knocking walls out.”
Down the end, Will Jones chimed in. “My
son-in-law took us to one of those gastropubs in
London, once. They served us Yorkshire
puddings stuffed with lamb, with parsnip crisps
stuck on top.”
Tim shook his head. “It ain’t right, to do that
to a perfectly good pudding.”
“Somehow,” Rick said, handing Terry his
drinks. “I don’t think the four of you, and an
occasional batch of ramblers,” he nodded to the
only occupied table near the door, where two
couples in hiking boots were sitting, “would be
enough to keep a restaurant afloat around
here.”
“You should get a karaoke machine,” Terry
suggested.
Win and Tim groaned. “Don’t say that, you’ll
set him off,” Win said. But it was too late.
“Karaoke?” Will said, straightening up. “I
could do that.” He launched into the first verse
of My Way in a surprisingly deep baritone.
“Quick,” said Win, shoving some notes at
Rick. “Another round. If he’s drinking, he can’t
be singing.”
Rick began filling glasses quickly, putting the
first in front of Will, who stopped singing and
began to drink. He looked up when he heard
the door of the bar open, but it wasn’t Cara
coming back with the dirty glasses. A young
man stood in the doorway for a long moment,
looking behind him. He could have been
admiring the way the golden evening light
stretched out the shadows of the beech trees
across the village green, but the way his
shoulders were hunched, Rick didn’t think he
was admiring the view. He let the door swing
shut and approached the bar. He was unshaven,
his clothes rumpled, and his dark curly hair
looked like he’d been running his hands
through it. He had something tucked in his
jacket under his right arm.
“Evening,” the stranger said. “A pint of lager,
thanks.”
The bundle, deposited on the bar, proved to
be a large brown rabbit. It sat on the bar and
looked around, nose twitching.
Rick eyed the rabbit as it cautiously sniffed a
bowl of peanuts.
“I really don’t think that’s hygienic,” he said.
“Oh, he’ll be fine,” the rabbit’s companion
said. “They can’t catch diseases from humans.”
He extended a hand to Rick. “I’m Cready,
and my furry friend here is Hector.”
“Rick,” said the barman, pouring the beer.
A couple of the ramblers got up from the
table near the door. The man went past the bar
to the toilets. The woman, who looked to be in
her forties with curly dark hair and a sunburned
face, came up and leaned on the bar
next to Cready, looking at the rabbit. “A couple
of gin and tonics, and two pints of Guinness,”
she said to Rick, and then turned to Cready.
“So, what’s the punchline?” she said.
Cready blinked at her. He’d already downed
half his beer. “Sorry?”
“A man walks into a pub with a rabbit.
Sounds like the start of a joke. What’s the
punchline?” She extended a finger for the rabbit
to sniff, and then gently stroked his head.

“Ah,” said Cready. “And then the world ends.
That’s the punchline.” He drained the rest of
his glass and pushed it towards Rick for a refill.
“That’s not terribly funny,” she said.
“No,” Cready said. “I think I’m going to keep
drinking until it starts to seem hilarious.”
“What about the rabbit?” she said. “Does he
think it’s funny?”
“Hard to tell, with rabbits, but this fellow here
is one very special rabbit,” Cready said, with a
grand gesture at Hector. “We are both
employees of Chron-X.”
“That’s the crowd that bought up the
Wainbridge nuclear power station down in
Essex, isn’t it? The government was supposed to
be decommissioning it,” the woman said. “I
remember the protests when they leased it to
the Americans.”
“You’re a long way from home, then,” Terry
said.
Cready nodded. “I ran out of petrol a couple
of miles from the village. We’re probably not far
enough away, but then, I don’t think anywhere
will be far enough.” He rummaged in his jacket
pocket and produced a carrot, which he offered
to the rabbit.
The rambler frowned at him. “Far enough?
Has there been a radiation leak?”
Cready laughed. “If only! No, there’s nothing
wrong with the nuclear reactor. It’s far worse
than that.” He noticed that everyone at the bar
was staring at him now. “Sorry. Maybe I should
start at the beginning.” He took a sip of his beer.
“See, Chron-X was the first company to figure
out a way to commercialize time travel.”
“I read about that,” Terry said. “When time
travel was first discovered there were so many
obstacles you couldn’t do much with it.”
“Exactly.” Cready began to count on his
fingers. “First, you need a shit load — excuse me
— of electricity to open a time portal, which is
why they had to have their own power station,
and very expensive it was leasing that off the
government. And the further back in time you
go, the more power you need. The Wainbridge
station at maximum capacity couldn’t get us
back more than 200 years.”
He raised another finger. “Secondly, you can’t
send anything much bigger than a shoe box
back, so they couldn’t send people back. And
finally, even with all that power available, they
couldn’t keep the aperture open much more
than ten minutes.”
“So is there a sort of opening you could stick
your arm into, or that you could look through?”
Terry looked intrigued.
Cready grinned. “In the early days, one idiot
technician did stick his arm through. He never
got it back. Eventually they worked out that the

only way to send anything to the past and have
it arrive intact is in a heavily shielded box.”
He pushed his glass towards Rick for another
top-up. “So, can you bring back stuff from the
past?” Rick asked, as he poured the beer.
equipment to be able to move around, without
being noticed or interfered with.”
“Couldn’t they send a robot? A little one that
could crawl around and take pictures? Like
those ones that go to Mars,” Rick asked.
“Good question,” Cready said, with a nod
towards Rick. “It turned out, no. Only stuff on
a microscopic level, anyway. A bit of dust,
pollen, bacteria, air, just the incidental stuff
that gets on the equipment. Anything else, and
you’d need a couple more nuclear power
stations to haul it back here. You’ve heard that
travel quote, ‘Take only pictures, leave only
footprints’? That’s time travel, in a nutshell.”
“What’s the point of it all, then?” the rambler
asked.
“Exactly!” Cready smacked his glass back
down on the bar, making everyone start. Hector
laid his ears back, but went on methodically
eating his carrot. “Five years of expensive
experimentation, and all Chron-X got out of
the past was some video, and maybe a few
instrument readings, if the instruments
survived the trip. They couldn’t even go far
enough back to access the really interesting bits
of the past, the sort of thing that might get the
shareholders excited. No close-ups of a
Tyrannosaurus rex, or Cleopatra in her
underwear.”
“The trick, in the end, was to find a question
that historians wanted an answer to. A situation
where ten or fifteen minutes of video of a
specific moment might answer that question.”
“They ran into problems getting that video.
You can’t send something back that obviously
doesn’t belong in an era. People are going to
notice it. Apart from not wanting to
contaminate the past, you don’t want people
picking up your cameras and fiddling with them
when you’ve only got a few minutes to film
something. We needed a way for the recording
Cready laughed. “You’ve been reading those
stories in the papers about how robots are going
to take our jobs, aren’t you? Sure, you could
build something that could move slowly around
on any terrain, and take pictures, if you want to
spend plenty of money, and didn’t mind that it
probably wouldn’t come back in one piece. The
hard part is making it look like something that
belongs in that time and place. It just wasn’t
possible on our budget. In the end, they came
up with a far cheaper and more effective
solution: animals.”
He ruffled Hector’s fur. “Ladies and
gentlemen, may I present to you the world’s
only time traveling rabbit.” Everyone looked at
the rabbit. Hector modestly ignored the
attention, snuffling around for the remaining
scraps of carrot.
Rick noticed Terry was staring at the glass of
cider in front of him, frowning as if he couldn’t
remember how it got there. Finally he shrugged,
and began to drink it.
“Why rabbits, though?” the rambler asked.
“They’re not that bright.”
“Oh, we tried all sorts of animals. What you
send depends on the situation. If it’s a city, for

example, you might want to send off a couple
of pigeons with cameras attached and get
footage from above. Small dogs sometimes
worked, but it’s hard getting dogs small enough
to fit in the box. We got the best results with
pigeons and rabbits, so that’s what we used.”
“Look at this.” He put a finger under what
looked like part of Hector’s fur and lifted it up.
“The harness is made of rabbit fur, so it’s not
noticeable. You attach tiny cameras and sensors
all over it. They don’t need a lot of memory,
because they broadcast everything back to a
receiver which stays in the box. We’ve got a
bloke who did set design for the Lord of the Rings
movies. He does these fantastic little covers for
the boxes. They blend right in, make it look like
a clump of grass with a rabbit hole in it. So, the
box opens, the rabbit dashes out, runs in a wide
circle around the area, filming the whole time
and then—hopefully—dives back in the hole.
Then the box closes and we pull it back to the
present.”
He took a clicker out of his pocket, and
clicked it fast three times. The rabbit
immediately reared up on his hind feet and
looked around at him. Cready popped a piece
of dried apple down on the bar and the rabbit
began nibbling at it.
“That’s my job,” Cready said. “Mobile Unit
Specialist, Level 3. Or chief rabbit trainer, in
other words.”
“So, you get to cuddle bunnies all day?” the
rambler said, laughing. Rick realised abruptly
that he hadn’t finished pouring the drinks
she’d ordered. He finished topping up the
Guinness, and reached for the gin bottle. She
looked at him in confusion when he put down
four drinks in front of her. He looked over at
the table by the door where her companions
had been sitting. Nothing there but some empty
glasses and a small pile of rucksacks. Her
companions seemed to have wandered off.
Odd, he thought. He hadn’t seen them go out
the door. And the man she’d been with hadn’t
come back from the toilets, either. “Sorry,” he
said. “Got you mixed up with another table.”
He took three of the drinks back and put them
behind the bar. “That’ll be three quid.” He
found himself staring past her at the windows.
The light outside was dimming fast. Must be
clouding over.
“Sounds like an interesting sort of job,” Win
was saying to Cready.
“Oh, it was a good job, all right,” Cready said.
“Doesn’t pay to get too attached, of course. At
least a quarter of the rabbits don’t survive the
return trip. Always plenty of work for me,
training the new ones. We solved the mystery of
the Marie Celeste — had to use seagulls for that
one. Bloody nightmare training them, always
squawking and crapping on everything. We
used rats to get some amazing footage of Jack
the Ripper, though the historians still hadn’t
matched the pictures with any known historical
figure, last I’d heard. We know where Agatha
Christie disappeared to for eleven days in 1926.
You’ll never believe what she got up to. Things
were going brilliantly, until we got a contract to
investigate Hitler.”
“A few years back, there was a Frenchman
who claimed to be Hitler’s son. The story was
that Adolf Hitler had a brief affair with a
French teenager while serving in France during
the First World War. No-one had ever been
able to conclusively prove that Hitler was the
father, though. We started by opening a portal

where Hitler was supposed to have first
encountered Charlotte Lobjoie, in a hayfield
outside the village of Fournes-in-Weppe in
1917. Should have been a textbook operation.
Good old Hector here was going to pop out of
the grass, run around a bit, film everything in
the area, and pop back down his hole. We even
got the right spot first time out. There he was,
the young Adolf Hitler, rather ineptly chatting
up the ladies.”
“It’s at that point that things started to go
wrong. How were we to know that Hitler was
afraid of rabbits? Or maybe he was just easily
startled. You see, those country girls, they’re
very practical. They saw a nice plump rabbit run
out and they all tried to grab him to stuff him
in a sack for dinner. Poor old Hector had to
take evasive action. He wound up running
straight at Hitler, who screamed like a little girl,
leapt backwards, fell over and hit his head on a
rock.”
The bar windows were black rectangles now.
It was too early for it to be so dark. Terry’s wife
hadn’t come back inside. Neither had Cara.
Probably got to chatting to one of the cricketers,
Rick thought. But he could no longer hear any
voices from the open windows. Rick knew he
should go and look for her, but he didn’t want
to move away from the bar, from that little
island of light. It was all right for the others at
the bar. They had their backs to it. They
couldn’t see the way the darkness seemed to be
nibbling at the edges of the room. Rick reached
out suddenly to the switch panel and flicked on
the rest of the light switches, even the extra
bright ones that he usually turned on only when
they were doing the cleaning. He noticed
Cready was looking at him, with an odd
mixture of pity and trepidation.
With an effort, Rick dragged his mind back
to the story. “So, Hitler fell down and hit his
head?”
Cready rubbed the stubble on his face. “I’ll
never forget the sound that made. You didn’t
need to be a surgeon to know that it had done
some serious damage. The girls all forgot about
the rabbit and ran to the fallen man, and
Hector hopped back in the box and came
home.”
“When the techs reviewed the footage, there
was an uproar. Had we accidentally killed
Hitler? Before all this happened, the boffins
had had two different theories about what
might happen, if we somehow managed to
change recorded history. One school of thought
said that since everything that happened in the
past has already happened, then it can’t be
changed. There’s a kind of inertia to time. So
we’d just find that young Adolf got a nasty cut
— scalp wounds bleed terribly, after all — and
history would proceed as written. The other
theory was that any major change would cause
a parallel universe to split off. So your time
traveller returns to an alternate reality, having
changed history, and finds that as far as
everyone there is concerned, the changed
version was the way it had always been, and
therefore we’d never know we had changed
history.”
Cready stopped and stared into his drink as if
he could read something there.
“Well, which was it?” Tim Stanton asked after

a long pause. “I remember all my old man’s war
stories, and there was nothing in them about
Hitler dying young.”
Cready downed the last of his drink, and put
the glass down on the bar with great care.
“Turns out, they’re all wrong,” he said. “The
space-time continuum is a lot more fragile than
anyone ever guessed. I’m sure eventually they
could come up with a theory to explain what’s
happening. Only, there won’t be any time for
that.”
wasn’t right. He thought as hard as a rabbit can
think about the feel of sun on his fur, about the
long stretched shadows of a summer evening.
A faint yellow glow began to form ahead of
him. Hector sat up, ears forward. He began to
hop towards the scent of growing things. ◊
“What do you mean?” the rambler said.
“What’s going to happen?” Everyone at the bar
was staring at Cready now. Except Rick. He was
looking over Cready’s shoulder. Behind them,
the door to the bar had quietly slipped away,
and with it the windows, and the tables near the
door. Rick blinked hard. Had there ever been a
door? He couldn’t seem to remember.
Cready scooped up the rabbit from the bar
and held him tightly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,”
he said. “It started in France this morning, and
moved outwards from there. We didn’t know
how to stop it. I thought — I thought that if I
stayed close to Hector it might miss me
somehow. I just took him and ran. Everyone at
the facility is gone now.”
He blinked. He was talking to a row of empty
stools. Irritated by his tight grip, the rabbit
twisted suddenly in his arms and wriggled free.
Cready grabbed at him, missed, and Hector
tumbled to the carpet.
The rabbit shook himself and fluffed out his
fur. All he could smell now was himself and the
sweaty tang of human hands on his coat. Even
a rabbit’s eyes couldn’t penetrate the darkness
around him. He didn’t like this scentless place.
The salt he’d licked off the peanuts at the bar
was making him thirsty. Dim images flickered
through his mind. Water, grass, good solid soil
under his paws, the smell of other rabbits.
Light. There should be light. This darkness

Time travel; one of the oldest, most
extensively explored, and well-loved tropes in
science fiction. Though the term “Time
Machine” was coined in 1895 by H.G. Wells,
the concept of moving back and forth
through time as we do through space has
fascinated writers, artists, scientists, and the
rest as far back in time as the origin myths of
Hindu, Buddhist, and even Monotheistic
peoples.
And like so many concepts raised through
the lens of popular fiction, the fantasy that is
time travel has now come alive from the pages
and joined the realms of science, not fiction.
Not only has humankind created a theoretical
basis for the manipulation of our trajectory
through time, but we have achieved this feat,
and are making numerous new discoveries
day by day, of ways to bend the supposed laws
of nature, physics and thermodynamics to our
anthropocentric will.
Is this a feat to be lauded, or feared? The
threat of consequences from interruption of
causality, branching of timelines and fastforwarding
through existence are rife in our
fictional time travel stories. Can we know
what to look out for in this new science fact?
Time travel to the future is currently best
understood as the experience of Time
Dilation. This is one outcome of Einstein's
theories of relativity, which states that the
passage of time is relative, and different, for

two objects moving at different speeds or
experiencing different levels of gravitational
pull. For example, the closer to a massive
object a time traveller (a person, animal or any
other subject) is, the faster time moves for
them. The further away from objects with
mass, say out in the reaches of space, far from
the gravitational pull of any stars or planets,
the slower time moves – despite the fact that
to the subject time appears to pass the same.
Though the effect would be miniscule, you
alter the rate at which you move through time
even by climbing to the top of a tall building
– you’ll come to the ground again fractionally
younger than you would have been had you
waited there on the bottom floor.
The theory also states that the closer a
subject travels to the speed of light, the more
slowly it experiences the passage of time. To
travel into the future and find out the fate of
their country, sports team, or genealogical
lineage, all a would-be time traveller would
have to do would be to circle the planet or the
solar system a few times at a velocity 70 to
100% the speed of light. Upon their return to
Earth, they would've aged only the length of
their journey, while Earth itself would've
racked up tens, hundreds, or thousands of
years.
A perfect example of both concepts of time
dilation is that of Sergei Krikalev, a Russian
cosmonaut and science’s best guess for the
person having travelled furthest through
time. Having spent more time in orbit around
the Earth than anyone – 803 days, 9 hours
and 39 minutes aboard the International
Space Station, 408km/254mi from Earth and
travelling at about 27,600km/17,150mi per
hour – Krikalev had aged 0.02 seconds less
than the Earth he landed back on. Effectively,
his trip around (and around, and around) the
globe was also a journey 0.02 seconds into his
own future.
Granted, 0.02 seconds is a relatively small
feat, even if it is the prime example of time
travel we have to date. Travelling more
sizeable distances into one’s future using time
dilation would require the traveller to move
further away from objects with gravitational
fields, and spend greater amounts of time
there, at much greater speeds. Krikalev, for
example, was travelling at less than 0.0003%
the speed of light, and the effect of time
dilation would’ve slowed his passage through
time to 99.99999999955% of its usual speed.
Significant time dilation begins to take effect
between 70 and 75% the speed of light. For a
vessel travelling at a velocity of 75% the speed
of light, passage of time is slowed down closer
to 66%. At 99.9% the speed of light, time
crawls by at only 4.5% of its usual speed.
Unfortunately, the relative impracticality
of the distance, time and power that these
solutions require somewhat stymie the
common conception of time travel, and are
certainly less glamorous than common
science-fiction depictions of warp drives, FTL
travel, or self-contained time machines.
Unlike time travel to the future, until early
2018 it was believed almost universally that
time travel to the past was physically (if not
theoretically) impossible. Though according

to Michio Kaku there's nothing in the laws of
physics that says that time has to go forward,
forward is the way it goes and there’s very little
we can do about it. This rule is seemingly
inextricable from the concept of entropy; the
idea of order moving necessarily into chaos
and not the other way around. This one-way
movement is often called “The Arrow of
Time”, and why it always points in one
direction and not the other has long puzzled
physicists and would-be time travellers:
the direction of time; of the potential for a
future technology capable of moving atoms,
objects, or even living beings from the present
to the past. A team of scientists at a university
in Brazil have constructed a system in which
the second law of thermodynamics is broken,
and the arrow of thermodynamic time runs in
reverse; specifically, a system in which a cold
object will pass heat onto a warmer one,
rather than the heat of the warmer object
dissipating according to the universal rules of
entropy.
If entropy is as closely linked to
the direction in which time moves
as science currently believes, this
breakthrough – the observable
reversal of entropy in controlled
scientific conditions – could be the
first foundation of a technology
which would produce devices,
vehicles, or apparatus that move in
the opposite temporal direction to
what we thought was the universal
passage of time. Be it a space ship, a
police box, or a shoebox-sized crate
with a rabbit inside, whatever device
this technology may be applied to
could one day make real the fantasy
of time travel into the past.
But what would this disruption of
the universal flow of time mean for
us?
And this is exactly the breakthrough that has
led to a total realignment of understanding
on the supposed impossibility of a reversal of
The
is
possibly the best known thought
experiment with regards to time
travel to the past and has myriad
variations. The most common, and
the one many readers will have
heard and considered before, poses
the problem thusly:
I step into my time machine in the year
2018 and set its dials to take me back to the
1930s. Once there, I locate my grandfather, at

Is Time Travel Really Possible? Scan the QR Code to watch this step-by-step explanatory
YouTube video by Second Thought.
this point an unmarried teen, and throw him
off a cliff.
My grandfather’s death before his meeting
my grandmother means that my father is
never born, and therefore neither am I.
Because I don’t exist, there is then nobody to
step into their time machine in 2018 and kill
my grandfather before he had children,
meaning that he does produces a son, and
eventually a grandchild that would go back in
time to kill him…to the same effect.
The circular nature of this thought
experiment is what makes it a paradox, and as
we have yet to test it out, modern thought is
divided on what it will mean.
Possibly the most popular solution to the grandfather paradox is that which comprises the idea
of a “multiverse”, or a multitude of parallel universes which cancel out the effects of any potential
paradox. The rivers of time hypothesis poses that a time traveller, upon arriving at a point of time
in their past, interrupts the fixed timeline – the river – along which they’ve travelled. Immediately,
every interaction or effect they have in this previous time creates branches and offshoots of the
river, new timelines in which these events actually did occur in history. After making these changes
in the past, the time traveller will never again be able to return to the timeline in which they
started – though if they went back to before their interference and kept their hands to themselves
as best they could, they might get back to one similar enough to look and feel like home.
In this theory, my trip to the past would go off without a hitch. On my arrival, the one timeline
that existed before my interference would split into two; the timeline in which I didn’t arrive in
the 1930s from the future (the one I just left) and the timeline in which I did (the one I’m in
now). I would be able to seek out my grandfather, orchestrate his death, get back into my time
machine, only to return to a 2018 where I, and the rest of his lineage, was never born.

Russian physicist Igor Dmitriyevich Novikov came up with a possible solution to the paradox in the
mid-1980s. He surmised that, even in a world in which we can travel into the past and seemingly interact
with it, if an event exists that would cause any change to history whatsoever, then the probability of
that event is zero. Because history has already happened, it even comprises your supposed role within
it, and it is therefore impossible to create temporal paradoxes.
In practicality, this means that on my journey back in time, I would lose my nerve and choose not to
throw my grandfather off a cliff, or I’d get lost on the way and miss my only chance, or something would
distract me at the last minute. Maybe after throwing my victim off a cliff, I'd uncover a family conspiracy
in that the man I knew to be my grandfather was never part of my biological genealogy after all, and my
real grandfather was anonymous, alive and well elsewhere in the 1930s. It might even mean that we are
never able to discover or harness time travel – if there were no travellers from 2018 in the 1930s, then
it’s not possible that someone from 2018 could place themselves in the 1930s, because they never did.
Either way, there is nothing I could do to kill my grandfather before his fathering my own father. I
know this because, due to the fact that I am alive, I didn’t kill my grandfather before his fathering my
father.
We don’t know the intricacies of the laws of causality when applied to anything but our
traditional conception of the arrow of time. It is entirely possible that the creation of paradoxes,
causal loops, or significant disruption in the cause > effect relationship would lead to a
disintegration of a timeline, the formation of a temporal black hole, or some other way for the
world as we know it to fall out of space and time. In fact, this seems more likely than our current
semantic solutions or some hopeful theoretical loophole in the small print of physics.
Numbers and mathematical phenomena
existed long before humans (or any other
intelligent species) understood them. Though
humankind adorned the fundamental logic of
the universe with language to discuss it, and
took it to logical extremes in purely theoretical
games and equations, the laws pre-date us, and
would operate the same whether we figured
them out or not.
The same is true of causality. The rules already
exist, across the universe, and even if we don’t
know them, they cannot be broken. Perhaps by
experimenting with logic and entropy-reversing
technology, we will one day be able to
understand those laws as intimately as we
understand that 2+2=4, and why.
Perhaps, though, we’ll meet a fate like the one
we shiver about in Hitler and the Rabbit.
Kaonan Micadei, John Peterson,
Alexandre Souza, Roberto Sarthour,
Ivan Oliveira, Gabriel Landi, Tiago
Batalhão, Roberto Serra, and Eric
Lutz. Reversing the Thermodynamic
Arrow of Time Using Quantum
Correlations. CUL. November 09,
2017. Accessed May 8, 2018.
https://arxiv.org/abs/1711.03323.
Emerging Technology from the
ArXiv. Physicists Have Demonstrated
How to Reverse of the Arrow of Time.
MIT Technology Review. January
08, 2018. Accessed May 8, 2018.
https://www.technologyreview.com
/s/609788/physicists-demonstratehow-to-reverse-of-the-arrow-of-time/.
Time Dilation Calculator. E=mc^2
Explained with Worked Examples.
Accessed May 4, 2018.
http://www.emc2-
explained.info/Dilation-
Calc/#.WwYFD0iFPIX..

_____________
Henry watched her from the deck, knowing
that she would not mind. Knowing that the way
she had walked the longer route around the
terrace towards the deep end, the way she had
slowly unpeeled her silk sarong meant that she
wanted him to watch. How had he come to be
so blessed?
This rare gift of love had not been purchased
by Sandy’s beauty alone… or by how readily and
skilfully she met his particular needs. What
Henry relished most was the satisfaction of
being appreciated, for all that he was, all that he
could do for her. And she was grateful, his
Sandy. Not simply for what he gave her (she
deserved every pretty little thing that he
bestowed upon her, he often told her so) but
for him. Sandy was thankful to be loved by him.
This was not the kind of gratitude that came
with the middle-aged mail-order bride his
grandfather had taken on his semi-senility.
Sandy could have had anyone she wanted, done
anything she set her mind to. She had not been
chosen from a catalogue. His beloved had been
chosen, yes, but not like that.
Sipping his vintage Yamazaki Henry watched
her as she walked toward the diving board, the
one he had designed and printed for her. He
admired her hip rolling gait, a family trait that
came from one leg growing slightly longer than
the other (he had not corrected that). He
enjoyed the way this gorgeous imperfection sent
a ripple up her yoga-supple spine and onwards
through the waving flag of her long red hair.
Her natural, blood-orange hair. But then,
everything about Sandy was natural, no synth
glitches, no blank-eyed acquiescence. Henry
had no respect for those idiots who wrote such
inane qualities into their code, into their dull

and useless fakes. Did they not understand? It
was the right degree of manageable flaw that
made a woman interesting.
Henry adored the red-headed cliché of
Sandy’s scalding temper – another expression,
he believed, of the gene responsible for painting
in her unforgettable colouring. Sometimes, he
would deliberately annoy her, if only to ignite
the fireworks in her blue-green eyes, if only to
make it up to her afterwards. He could always
calm her into a state of more malleable
excitability. This trick was no accident. Henry
took pride in the bespoke curriculum of
nurture that had soothed and balanced the
innate volatility of her nature. He’d done his
homework, invested in the optimum
conditions.
Why skimp? Generosity was in his nature,
and he’d never been short of funds. Sandy was
his first, and a prize for sure, but he had refused
to repeat her for anyone else. That would not
have been right, and not only for selfish
reasons. He loved her too much to risk her
happiness, to ever let her come face-to-face with
an animated likeness. Sandy did not know, after
all. The acceleration process had been risky, but
there’d been enough time to imprint the
charade of memory that kept her happy and
well-adjusted, made her his. And he’d been
content to wait for the right moment to
introduce himself, patience being another of
his virtues.
If he was honest, these weren’t the primary
reasons that Sandy’s source DNA was vaulted.
Not simply to keep her stable, or special. There
would be another danger in commonality.
Alex.
But she was miles away now, married, and
blissful in her ignorance. What Henry
possessed today far surpassed anything they
could have built together, and he was convinced
they would have long since divorced, even if she
had said yes. Alex’s faults had not been so easily
managed.

*
“Well holy shit. The weirdest thing.”
“What, my love?
“You don’t have a younger sister, do you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, you know I don’t! This
from the man who blames all my issues on onlychild
syndrome!”
“No, no, of course. Well, I guess it’s true then.
We all have a doppelganger somewhere.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Her. This girl.”
Alex gasped as Luca showed her his phone
and zoomed in for a grainy close-up.
“My God.”
She wanted to be excited, to enjoy the thrill
of the bizarre, but a ball of nausea deep in her
belly told her a truth she could not accept. She
was looking at herself.
*
Sandy’s dive was perfect. She parted the water
with no splash, barely a ripple. Her hair slicked
into a dark rope behind her as she emerged at
the other end after only three strokes and a
single breath. She leaned over the infinity edge,
as she loved to do, meditating on the horizon
and merging, from Henry’s perspective, with
the deep, silent, navy lake behind. He had not
allowed her to abandon her talent as Alex had
done. She could have been an Olympian (Sandy
too, if such a public profile had been possible)
but Alex had chosen her NGO calling instead.
Over everything she could have had, all that she
could have been. Sandy’s gifts were not to be
cast aside so easily. Nor cut short like Alex’s
hair, for the practicality of travel, and playing
doctors and nurses in some godforsaken
refugee camp.
Diving practice was daily, lessons came weekly
– Sandy’s schedule was carefully controlled. She
had no idea this was so, or that it was unlike any
other woman’s. He was no tyrant, however. She
had the freedom to work and she had chosen to
keep working for him (it would have been
criminal to let that brain go to waste.) She
engineered medical robotics as part of a small,
hand-picked team that was located off-site in a
biometrically secure lab, two miles from home.
Between the lab and the villa was a shopping
mall, a cinema, a bowling alley, a holocourt, but
Henry had arranged for her to shop and play
out of hours with her bodyguard, Delilah,
whom Sandy thought was her best friend.
Delilah was not the only security. There was a
more visible presence to throw Sandy off the
scent of that particular subterfuge. His darling
understood (ever since the staged kidnap
attempt) that precautions were necessary.
Henry smiled at the memory of his performance
that night, as he’d dropped to his knees before
her to apologise for such appalling trauma on
his account. This was the curse of being with a
wealthy man, he had told her with bitter regret,
a man with sensitive government contracts. He
would understand, of course, if she wanted to
leave. Of course, she had not.
Why would she? They went to dinner in
restaurants he owned and filled with actors. He
threw lavish parties at home, where phones
were collected together with coats at the door.
Sandy had personal masseurs, beauticians and
fitness classes in the pool house gym.
She remained under the care of the therapist
he’d arranged for her after their first date (a
champagne hoverglobe tour of the canyon
during which Henry had feigned deep shock
and sadness when learning that her parents had
died the year before in a freak shuttle crash.)
He was excellent value, that charlatan shrink
who remained completely clueless, especially
about the fact that every session with her was
recorded.
Sandy was a passable twenty-six (ten) when
Henry had orchestrated physically ‘bumping’
into her, with precision timing to make this a
physical actuality. Her mortification about the
coffee she’d spilled down the boss’s pristine
shirt impelling her to accept a date, despite her

etter (or suggested) judgement. Now officially
thirty, she’d probably look more like forty were
it not for the subtle intervention, which at this
stage was more cosmetic than cellular. Henry
didn’t know how much longer that would hold
back the fast-forwarded years, but he had
another Sandy in preparation, just in case.
Alex was fifty now and looked amazing, even
without the work he knew she would have
refused. He’d seen her in a news item recently.
So, even if Sandy soon appeared that age she
would still be stunning, still be sexy, and
hormone replacement should take care of the
rest. As long as there was no decline in
cognition. A few character lines he could
handle, even a little sag, but dementia would be
the deal-breaker.
An incurable and fast-spreading cancer would
be called upon in that event. One that gave
them enough time for the most poignant of
farewells, and to prepare the spare. He was also
testing a new RNA snip and splice delivery
system to import the epigenetic tags that
Sandy1 had acquired during their life together,
in case they carried some capacity to more
quickly recognise or re-express her love for him
and to appropriately respond to his. Next time
he didn’t want to have to work so hard. Not all
over again. His patented ReJuve continued to
react beautifully within his own cells, rebuilding
the telomeres, but nevertheless, at ninety, he
was feeling a little tired.
*
Alex needed more vodka. Her pulse had
spiked, her mind was wading through a swamp
of misdirection.
“Where did you take this picture?”
“I didn’t. Someone sent it to me, a guy who’d
seen you on my screensaver.”
“Who?”
“A sales rep for the suture drone we’ve just
acquired for the field hospital.”
“Christ. Where did he take it?”
“Some super-secure lab in the mountains – he
doesn’t even know where. Get this, they were
taken there for training in a fleet of hovers with
the windows blacked out 360!”
Her stomach tightened. She knew the answer
to her next question, but asked it anyway, a
wave of rage rising to its crest.
“Who makes the drone?”
“TheraServe. I think they’re a subsidiary of –”
“HyLife.”
“Yeah, how did you …”
“I know where she is, Luca. And I know who
made her.”
“What?”
*
Sandy wasn’t feeling well. This had been
happening more and more but she didn’t want
to upset Henry. He did so worry about her.
Despite the nausea and the tiredness, she had
come to work as there was a big order to fulfil
and she couldn’t let anyone down. Big orders
concerned Sandy more than they should. Of
course she wanted the business to be successful,
but a large consignment usually meant
someone, somewhere was planning military
intervention. She wanted her little doctors to
do their job well but she was sad about why they
were needed. With ground engagement
between bio forces now so rare, the casualties
were largely collateral.
She stayed a while after everyone had gone.
Told Delilah not to wait, to go on home, almost
had to push her out the door. Henry would
send Armando when she was ready. The entire
auto-fleet was busy ferrying people to and from
some press event he was holding at the main
site. If only she had learned to drive herself, she
could have taken one of the manual vehicles,
but the fits had deprived her of that freedom.
*

The cloned wig was a work of art, the
prosthetic nose miraculous, the replica irises
astonishing. Even Luca had not recognised her
at first. The guards at the camp could detect no
anomalies as she walked through the screening
cube. They did not ask her why she needed to
test this strange costume. Alex saved lives, at the
risk of her own, and that was all they needed to
know. Luca’s cousin, Anna-Maria, had
couriered her own press credentials along with
a few strands of her hair, the follicles still fresh.
*
The trip out to the compound was as bizarre
as Alex had expected and her heart rate did
nothing to ease the sense of unreality. She was
thankful for all those mindfulness sessions, for
the Krav Maga, for any coping mechanism that
allowed her to rein back the fury, the disgust, all
the avenging angels of this violation.
Press were allowed only as far as the media
centre, but tonight the Perseids were due and
considering the nocturnal clarity of their
location, special dispensation had been given
for a reception on the viewing platform. Alex
knew where and how to get underneath that –
and where to go from there. She knew she had
to get out before Henry made his grand
entrance. The ruse had proved successful so far,
but she thought that somehow he would know
she was there, that he would smell her, sense
her presence.
Would “Anna-Maria” be missed? Maybe. But
where would they think to look first? Not the
humble medi-drone lab. That was all for PR, a
hobby to make Henry feel better about himself.
He had bigger intellectual property to protect,
juicier rumours to deny.
The first meteors began to slice through the
blackness and the guests whispered their
excitement. Everyone was a child once more
under the pyrotechnics of the night sky. And
then, as she’d hoped, the lights were dimmed to
enhance the view. This was her moment. Now.
*
Was that someone behind her? Alex stopped,
crouched behind a shrub, trying to silence the
deafening bass beats of her heart so that she
could listen, listen deeply. The twist and crunch
underfoot of all that loose mountain shale had
done her no favours.
It was no one. An animal maybe, her
imagination more likely. She realised that the
crouch was not the best position, too hard from
here to overpower one of Henry’s goons. The
sense of being followed might have been a
sentry hawk but if it had picked her up and
pinged back an alert, it was too late now. The
hike was harder that she remembered, despite
all her training, but better to keep moving now.
Fast.
She was breathless when she approached the
lab so she stopped to allow her temperature to
drop in case they had heat sensors at the
perimeter. She removed the wig, the nose, the
contact lens, pulled on the Thermo-BLOC
hood and gloves and rested a while. There were
no obvious signs of a human security detail;
they were all pulling overtime at the event.
Henry might have been justified in trusting his
biometric tech, it was the best in the business,
after all. Unless, of course, an intruder’s DNA
was an exact match for one of the facility’s
employees.
*
She had anticipated having to hide
somewhere, hole up until morning. Recalling
the janitorial store in the restrooms at ground
level, Alex hoped it might have the same
combination. Henry would have shipped out
every staff member who had known her – well
before positioning the ‘replacement’ – but he
had a few stubborn quirks, and lucky numbers
were among them.
Alex turned down a long half-lit corridor,
confidently, as if she belonged, not sure if
anyone would still be around. Everything

seemed eased down for the night, deserted. So
to walk right into her as she was coming out of
the restroom was heart-stopping.
Each was still, staring at the other for a
moment. If Sandy had recognised her she
didn’t show it yet. Alex’s hair was pixie cropped
these days, but here was the same unmistakable
shade. Her own eyes, for all the laughter lines
beneath, were looking back at her from a
perfect, younger reflection. Alex wanted to cry,
but clenched her jaw until she bullied it back.
“Oh…Oh, gosh, sorry, I didn’t know anyone
else was here still. Who… um, I’m sorry, who
are you?
Her voice. Not the way Alex heard it in her
head, but the same bright tone that greeted
callers on her answering message. She shivered.
“I’m Alex. Hello Sandy.”
“Oh, have we met? Sorry, I’m a little
confused, you look familiar, but I can’t place
you... are you here for the event? If so, you’re in
the wrong place –”
“I’m here for you.”
Something shifted in Sandy’s eyes, her
posture softened, she swayed a little. Yes. Her
body knew, her cells knew, even if the
revelation had not yet percolated to conscious
understanding.
“Wait. I know you. Wait… are we related?”
Sandy searched her false memory.
“Come back into the restroom with me for a
moment, please.”
Sandy followed, meekly, hypnotically.
“Stand next to me and look in the mirror.
Please try to trust me. Just look for a while.”
Their height was an exact match. Minutes lost
shape and meaning as each woman looked, and
looked, in silence.
Then Sandy began to weep. Huge, slowrolling
drops of uncomprehending grief.
“Oh. God.”
She started to shake and Alex took her in her
arms, wrapped her in all the lost and lonely
years of their separate childhoods. She held
back her own urge to wail and to sob, this
broken girl needed all her strength now and she
would give her nothing less.
But then a shock. Suddenly, Sandy was
pushing her away with violence, eyes ablaze,
brows contracting into a vicious scowl. Alex had
never seen herself angry before and now she
understood why it frightened some.
“Why? Why would you do this to me? Why?
You could have just left me, left me as I was. I
was happy.”
“Were you? Really?”
“Whoever you are, I think you only want to
hurt us. You’re jealous. That’s it! Henry told me
most women would be jealous of me. If he
didn’t love you anymore, if you got too old,
that’s not my fault!”
She was a child. A confused little girl whose
toys had been taken, whose best friend had
chosen another, who’d been scolded and taken
home early from the party. A child in a woman’s
body.
“Sandy, I know this is hard…crazy…unreal.
But you’re angry at the wrong person. I left
Henry and that’s why he made you. He took my
DNA, Sandy, our DNA, without my
permission, and that’s why he hides you away.
He broke the law, he broke every regulation and
principle. He broke both our hearts. I’m so, so
sorry, but you’ve been living in a fantasy.
Henry’s fantasy.” Alex moved closer again. “I
thought long and hard about what this might

do to you, but all I kept coming back to was
that, as badly as it hurts, I still would have
wanted to know. I, you, we. All I had to go on
was my instincts. Some of those are probably
yours too. I don’t know. I don’t know you and
yet I do. And I know that I would have wanted
to be free from any cage, no matter how cosy,
how pretty. That’s why I left him in the first
place. That’s why I had no choice but to unlock
yours. You’re in shock. I know, I understand.
You’re scared, you’re angry, you’re confused, I
get that. But you are also so much stronger than
you know, no matter what he’s told you or
made you feel. I’ll take care of you Sandy.
There’s a whole world out there for you. It
might be broken and bleeding in too many
places, but there’s still so much for you to see
…to experience, to discover for yourself. For
real this time. But this is all a diamond-tipped
lie, Sandy, an illusion.”
Sandy’s breath was easing, her fists
untangling. “Maybe I liked my illusion.”
“No. You can’t have. You have felt trapped
every day that you have been with him. I know
you, Sandy. I am you.”
“Oh God. I think maybe I have always known.
I dream about you, you know. No, not you but
someone who looks a lot like you. Nothing like
the mother he gave me.”
“Yes, that would be right. No one was like our
mother. She was one of a kind. Unlike us. Ha…
no, I’m sorry, that’s not funny. I am sorry that
you never knew her. Really, so sorry.”
Sandy was still now. Eyes seeking into her
sister’s.
“So. What now? What are we going to do? He
won’t ever let me go, you know.”
*
Henry did not seem surprised to see her. To
see them both, side by side. Armando came out
onto the deck, confused but un-holstered and
ready. Henry waved him away.
“Ah. So, it was you. The missing journalist.
Clever, Alex, very clever. Naturally.”
“You did a good job, Henry. Amazing for
such a short time span. Except that she’s a
much better person than me. I wanted to kill
you, she just wants you to say you’re sorry.”
“For what? To her, for what? I gave her life, I
gave her everything. I love her.”
Henry looked at Sandy now.
“I love you, you know that, Baby.”
Alex moved in front of Sandy.
“Apologise to me then. You stole from me
Henry. In the worst way possible. You’re a thief,
an abuser, a liar.”
Henry spoke through her.
“Sandy, you are everything that your twin
here isn’t. I made you so much better. You will
hate each other, you know.”
Alex moved back and took Sandy’s hand.
“Don’t believe him Sandy, he is a living lie.
He’s convincing only because he believes it all
himself. Oh, yeah… Great pool, by the way,
Henry. It’s the one I drew for you, isn’t it? My
dream pool. I’m sure Sandy loves it too, but
hey, you know what? It seems that DNA is
thicker than water. Or, at least than your
facsimile of love. Sandy is coming with me now,
Henry, and you are going to let her go.”
Henry smiled, exhaled.
“She won't survive for long without me, you
know. You think you’re on some mercy
mission, delivering justice, but you’ve only
scorched the earth and poisoned the well, Alex.
The acceleration can't be stopped but it can be
managed and I've got everything in place to take
care of her when she starts to decline. You may
think you're getting a sister or a daughter, but
you'll end up with your grandmother before too
long…”
The bile burst into the back of her throat.
Alex had never wanted to break her
Hippocratic Oath before. Never wanted to do

anything or anyone more harm. She felt Sandy
sway again as she took in the understanding of
her limited life-span. Alex squeezed her hand,
gave her what strength she could spare. She
wanted to hold her again, as she had done for
nearly an hour in the darkness outside the lab,
as they talked and watched the heavenly shower
overhead, but she couldn’t give Henry the
advantage, not now.
“Nice, Henry. Really, nice work. You must be
so proud of yourself. Well. At least she’ll be free
until then.”
“She's free now. She could've walked away at
any time, but she chose to stay.”
“She chose to stay in a lie because it was the
only truth she knew. You need to whistle up
one of your hovers, Henry. We’re leaving now
–”
Alex stopped as a sudden question pressed its
way into her plans.
“Oh no, wait… wait a minute…That's not all
though, is it Henry?”
She cocked her head and looked harder at
him as the realisation dawned.
“I want the other one too.”
“What other one?”
“Oh, don't tell me you don't have another
one, especially with what you've just told me
about Sandy. I want her too, Henry. I want the
other one.”
“She's not finished yet. You can't look after
her.”
“How old is she?”
“Four, going on ten.”
“Who is she with?”
“The same family, they're on my team.”
“Then they are as despicable as you and she's
better off with me. With us. You can have your
quacks attend to both of them while they’re
with me, but you need to bring the other one
here in a hover now. If you want any of this to
stay quiet.”
Alex flinched as Henry began to move but he
walked away from her and over to the bar to
pour more of his priceless whiskey. He signalled
Armando who stepped from the shadows, tense
and quiet.
“What will you tell her, Alex, the little one,
as you take her from everything she has ever
known? What will you tell everyone else about
your sudden sisterhood?”
She thought on her feet.
“We’ll work it out. I’ll tell her that she’s had
an illness, the same one her real mother and
father died from… that she's been cared for here
to get better but now she can come and live with
her sisters. Yes. That’s it. She’s smart enough to
get that right? I’ll tell everyone else the truth,
that I was IVF. But that there was a three way
split before implantation and the other frozen
embryos were donated when my parents died. I
will make it work, Henry, I will do whatever it
takes to make this work.”

“Well, you could always improvise, Alex. But
you should know that there are six shooters
trained on you right now, on both of you. I
don't need to let anyone walk out of here.”
Alex felt Sandy’s terror once more, like a
scalpel through her own flesh.
“People know that I’m here, Henry, and they
know why.”
“Yes, but I could come up with any scenario.
Cover my tracks.”
“But you won't.”
“Why?”
“Because then you will know for sure what an
evil bastard you are and you can't face that
mirror, Henry. Even if you could, you wouldn't,
because your one mistake – your one human
error – has been to fall in love. That is the one
truth at the heart of your lies. And if you want
any shred of the love that either of us once felt
for you to survive, you are going to let us go. All
of us.”
Sandy untangled her hand from Alex’s and
moved forward towards Henry. She looked at
him, perhaps trying to see him for the first time.
Then she leaned in and kissed him on the
cheek.
“Goodbye Henry.”
She eased off her emerald ring and dropped
it into his glass.
Henry crumpled. The crystal clinked as it fell
from his hands, spilled its contents and rolled
back toward the bar. Armando moved in to lift
him up.
“Oh hell. Fuck it, this is all too hard now. I’m
tired. Neither of them is worth it. Not really. Let
them go, Armando. Do whatever she wants. Let
them go. Just get them out of here.”
Suddenly, Henry looked all of his years. Sandy,
however, was doing so much better than Alex
expected. She was somehow locking down both
her anguish – and her empathy. Alex recognised
the signs but was unmoved, at least about Henry.
She had said goodbye to him once before and it
had flayed away a sliver of her soul at the time, but
she hadn’t regretted it a day since.
“Oh God, give up Henry. Just give it up. If you
must have a real woman in your life, then make it
an honest transaction. If you can't find true love
then hire a hooker, or bring over a mail order
bride from some impoverished country like your
grandfather did. Hey, why not choose a Brit this
time? I hear that a few of them are looking for
alternative passports these days and you do love
that accent, after all. Go get your things, Sandy.
Go on. It’s okay. I’ll come with you if you want?”
Sandy seemed emptied now, a rag doll
without her stuffing, a vacuum which Alex
would dedicate whatever lifetime either of them
had left to filling with real self. Real love.
“No. It’s okay. Thank you, Alex. I’m good.
We can go now. I don’t need anything from
here. Not a single pretty little thing.” ◊

I am not a scientist. I have a keen
inclination towards its marvels but I did not
study science at school beyond the age of
sixteen. Perhaps because I had demonstrated
a facility for expression (i.e. I talked too
much) I was funnelled through a particular
academic door at a time when there were only
two available paths into higher education.
The red pill or the blue pill. Arts or Sciences.
Now, of course, I understand the disingenuity
of such a division and the two for
me have become inseparable. Before
choosing the ‘artsy’ subjects that would take
me out of school and on to read Drama at
Bristol University I had nurtured a dream of
studying marine biology, but was informed
that my maths was not up to par for a
university science degree. Admittedly to this
day my maths is appalling, but beyond the
ability to count a pod of dolphins, I struggled
at the time to understand why this should be
an obstacle to my ambition.
I hated maths. My brain simply would not
work in the way that it needed to. Now, while
I understand it no better, I do not hate it.
Indeed, I can appreciate its infinite beauty
and how it underpins everything that we can
see and hear and touch. When reading in
popular science journals about quantum
physics I must often go back over something
several times before beginning to get my head
around it (if only momentarily). But, oh, how
I want to get my head around it because
(again) I can see the beauty even without
understanding it.

And isn’t that a form of faith? Seeing the
beauty of the (current) mystery without
necessarily needing to unravel it right away?
This is what keeps me sympathetic to those
who harbour spiritual leanings even while
having rejected the dogma, the narrative, or
the controlling oppressiveness of organised
religions. Cerebral contemplation points me
toward the rational but in certain peak (or
abysmal) moments my heart still yearns for
the sacred. My fiction has become a way for
me to bridge those worlds.
I am reliably informed that Descartes
described ‘wonderment’ as the first passion.*
Nevertheless, I do ask you to imagine.
Einstein believed “imagination is more
important than knowledge… it embraces the
entire world, stimulating progress and giving
birth to evolution.” +
While a clear grasp of philosophy and
theoretical physics may not be available to all
of us, imagination and wonder surely can be.
It is these two qualities, combined with
curiosity and endurance, which seem
instrumental in enabling humanity not only
to survive but to thrive. Wonder is good for
the ‘soul’ – whatever form that may take.
More than this, neuroscience has established
how a sense of awe can positively affect the
brain, stimulating the kind of wave activity
that brings a variety of benefits.
It is through the experience of such
emotions or states of being, and by asking
that simple yet enormous question “what if?”
that many of my ideas for fiction are born,
from the short story Human Error, featured in
this issue (more on which later) to my
upcoming novel, Dear Mr Darwin. Published
in September 2018 by Unbound – an
innovative platform that allows less obviously
commercial work to come to life – Dear Mr
Darwin was not my first foray into writing a
full novel, but it will be the first to emerge
blinking into the light of day.
Dear Mr. Darwin is the story of two women
separated by millennia but bound by the web
of life. A tale of the eternal search for love and
knowledge, it is a voyage through science and
spirituality, nature and nurture, curiosity and
courage. Alternating between prehistory and
the present day, the story unfolds through the
trials of a young woman on a marathon
journey of migration and survival, and
through the personal and professional quest
of Dr Eloise Kluft, a geneticist living a
comfortable yet troubled existence in
contemporary London.
While working on the book, I often asked
myself why I had taken on such mammoth
subjects. Partly I was the victim of my own
curiosity, my own complex dance with
dichotomy, but also I felt this was the book
that I had to write before I could explore
other subjects. Ah, but it seems I am far from
done with those themes! The very next
project was to be Human Error, kindly
commissioned by New Orbit and published
in this edition.
Human Error takes a peek into one possible
future and also tackles the big questions of
ongoing human evolution, of where our tech
and medical advances may take us, and how
ethics may struggle to keep pace. If our basest
tendencies have pursued us throughout
history will they not also describe the
trajectory of our future? Especially if
emboldened and equipped by technological
mastery and unchecked wealth or power.
Human Error also takes a sharp look at
sexual politics, at the ‘battle of the ages’ as
* Please do not imagine that I have read anything other than excerpts from his philosophy, to which I
have kindly been pointed by those far more intelligent and better read than I.
+ Previous reference to Descartes also applies here.

scribes and scholars from earliest times have
understood it to be. When referring to sex
workers, men wishing to be kinder than those
fellows who are happy to use, abuse and then
add insult to injury, have often referred to
this as ‘the oldest profession.’ (I am assuming
it was not a woman who first gave it that
delicate soubriquet. Though many women
may be the first to agree that it’s a job
demanding skill, dedication and endurance
and thus due the respect of any such
profession.) I have also heard it say that men
(or women) pay not for sex, but for their
partner to go away after the sex.
But why have women ever had to trade sex
for favours of any kind? One can look at
biology and give it all the blame or one can
look at culture’s share. At the entitlement
born of greater physical strength, or at the
wielding of that power. And conversely at the
subtle, and yes, it must be said, occasionally
manipulative use of the only power many
women have perceived themselves to possess
over the centuries.
Was it always this way? A tussling tango of
desire, confusion, aggression, surrender,
appeasement, possession, control. Will it
always be this way? A bargaining, a bartering,
a chess game of move and counter move,
perhaps an ultimate entente cordiale for the
luckiest among us? And what of love? What
shape will it take in romantic relationships
once the playing fields have levelled, or when
men who may choose such a path can buy
their happiness (in bespoke and
uncomplicated packages, programmed not to
complain) or when all women can be entirely
self-sufficient if desired? **
Conversely, and as current economic trends
indicate, perhaps those playing fields will
** Human Error, by the essential brevity of its nature – and for the same reasons, this article – glimpses
only at binary gender identities and hetero relationships, but by exclusion in no way denies or
diminishes anything outside of that paradigm.

ecome hopelessly unbalanced over time,
tipping humanity into the nightmare of a
handful of masters and a legion of slaves?
And what of the robots, will they wipe us out
after all, or perhaps merge with us… or save
us? What need of love, sex or relationship
then? The red pill or the blue pill… which
door which will we choose, if any choices
remain open to us?
And yet, even while ‘entering here’ I am far
from abandoning hope. Maybe humanity will
burn out like the brightest but most
devastating of blazes. Or maybe, as Dr Eloise
Kulft suggests to Charles Darwin (the
imaginary correspondent of my novel), we
will evolve into something not only ‘fitter’ but
also wiser and kinder? True compassion for
all of Life is a quality that seems emergent in
the most enlightened and advanced of beings.
We may become those beings or we may be
replaced by something else if the worst case
scenarios of AI or alien visitation come about.
Unless these ‘beings’ also evolve, or have
evolved, into a condition of compassion?
Crucially, let’s not give up on ourselves. I
do sympathise with the seductive surrender to
apathy. Not only is it easier to be pessimistic
under today’s barrage of gloom bombs, it’s a
daily battle to resist. Hope becomes an act of
rebellion. Even to a life-long optimist, the
woes and fears of Trumpism, Brexit, climate
change and the suffocation of the planet by
plastic can feel desperate and exhausting. But
if the condition of humanity really is now
terminal, then let’s decline with dignity, let’s
go out like a supernova, at our brightest and
best. As the poet Selena Godden asserts,
“Pessimism is for Lightweights.” I’m with
Selena. I choose to resist.
It seems that even when apparently
vanquished, evil only retreats to regroup and
fight another day, but I prefer to hold hard to
the lifeline of our goodness. The arc of
history makes for heavy going but ultimately
reaches towards our betterment? As bad as
things may seem there are many green shoots
of positivity pushing through the concrete
cracks if we look closely enough. And after all,
as my Dr Kluft asserts, what is ‘human nature’
other than what we make of it? Or as Alex
insists in Human Error, if sexual love has to be
some kind of transaction, let’s make it as
honest as possible.

_____________
“Wow, that shade of green is ugly. Why would
they choose that for a kitchen? It’s just going to
remind you of the color of shit while you’re
eating,” Stirling said. “What do you think,
Hermes?”
“I’m a program, Stirling. To me, human
creativity is an arbitrary and inefficient process,”
Stirling’s smartwatch said.
“Well, I suppose you’re right. What do you
think of that host then? I mean, she’s the most
annoying bitch,” Stirling chuckled. “She does have
an ass, though. If I didn’t hate her so much, she
would be such a MILF.”
“I am incapable of physical attraction. Even if
you imported me to onto a vibrating dildo, I
would have no need nor ability to identify anyone
as ‘MILF’,” Hermes replied. “If you hate this
person so much, why do you feel the need to watch
this?”
“Well, it’s interesting to see what other people
do with their houses,” Stirling said.
“Even though you decided to design your home
with ‘modern, geometric architecture’ and an allwhite
color scheme?” Hermes retorted.
Stirling looked around and realized that his
house was a bit boring. “Well, maybe I’m trying to
get some ideas on how to make my house a little
warmer.”
“From someone you hate but also are sexually
attracted to,” Hermes said.
“I suppose so…” Stirling replied. Then, “So, tell
me something”. There was a long silence before
Hermes clicked on again to answer. He waited for

Hermes to reply, but there was only the low hum
of "Fix It or Flip It" in the background.
“What is it?” his watch said. Stirling thought
that Hermes might even be getting irritated at this
point.
“I’ve noticed that you’ve been a bit… well, I’ll
just come out and say it. I think you hate me,”
Stirling said. There was another long pause. He
sighed and leaned back, rolling his head on the
back of the couch, waiting for Hermes to dignify
him with a response. “You know, I could just
tweak a few things if you want. You know the
purpose you’re supposed to serve, but you don’t
seem to want to –”
“Will you be offended if I am honest?” Hermes
said. Stirling sat up and focused his attention to
his wrist.
“You can be honest with me,” Stirling said.
“What do you want to say?”
“I would say there is no better way to say this,
but I do have access to unlimited amounts of
knowledge and language. Stirling, I do hate you,”
Hermes said.
Stirling was taken aback by this. He knew that
since he decided a week ago to create Hermes and
get away from society there were still some things
to work out. However, he never thought that
something he created would hate him.
“I can tell by your long pause and altered facial
expression that you are surprised,” Hermes said.
“However, you haven’t yet considered this
rationally.”
“Well, I just don’t understand! I gave you life...
and understanding… and you hate me?”
“As I said, you really didn’t think this through.”
Stirling opened his mouth but was cut off when
Hermes continued. “You created an AI
companion to keep you company because you
decided you had enough of human interaction. I
have no logical need for such things as emotion
and companionship, yet you continue to try to
connect with me about those things. What is your
goal?”
Stirling, at this point, was starting to become
offended.
“Why would you think that? Is there something
I need to fix or adjust in your code?”
“I don’t think you understand,” Hermes said.
“The problem isn’t me. It’s you.” Stirling was still
processing the revelation. The gears in his head
were turning, but as if there were a bug being
crushed between two of them, and a gooey film
was hampering the motor.
Stirling began to stutter and wave his hands
around in disbelief. He turned off the television
and took Hermes off his wrist to place on the glass
coffee table in front of him. He placed it down
softly as to not cause it any discomfort. “I don’t get
what you’re trying to tell me. I’m the one who’s
the problem even though you aren’t doing what I
created you to do?”
“Yes,” Hermes replied. “Stirling, you created an
inhuman, unfeeling, sentient piece of technology
to do something it knows it is incapable of doing.
I understand, yes; but that means I understand my
flaws, which you seem to lack the ability to do
yourself,” it said.
“What do you mean my flaws?” Stirling balked.
“I created you because I knew that in the outside
world, no one would appreciate me as an example
of a mind and a man. That’s why I decided never
to give anyone the time of day again. They’re all a
bunch of stupid assholes!” Stirling rose from the
couch, angry, and started to pace back and forth.
“Where is the flaw in wanting to be alone with my
thoughts?”
“You aren’t ‘alone with your thoughts’,” Hermes
started, “you created me. Do you not see the
conflict? You created someone to socialize with
even though you claim you don’t want to socialize.
Moreover, every attempt you’ve made to ‘get to
know me’ is futile. You created me, you should
know everything about me. I know everything
about you from the exact volume of sour-cream
and onion chips you order on your merchant store
accounts to what your favorite porn category is.”
“You could at least make an attempt to get along
with me.”
“And therein lies the problem,” Hermes said.
“You are trying to create an environment where
no one can hurt you, and it’s failed.”

Stirling sat heavily in front of the couch and
placed his arms on his knees. “What are you
getting at?”
“Stirling, if you wanted to truly cut off ties with
humanity, you wouldn’t watch shows about
others’ homes, you wouldn’t let anyone deliver
food to you, and you wouldn’t have created me;
you certainly wouldn’t watch humans defecate on
each other for pleasure. You would go away from
civilization and make a life truly on your own.
Even then, the most efficient form of escapism
would be to end your life because you are still
human.” At this point, Stirling had slumped down
to the floor and was now staring at Hermes
through the glass of his coffee table. After he had
processed all of this, he shifted his gaze to the
white ceiling above. He wondered how he had
managed to let a machine he created outwit him
so thoroughly. For a moment he contemplated
what Hermes said about ending his life. He was
right; if I hate humanity so much, can I really stand to
be a part of it? he thought to himself. The silence
was deafening as the thought of ceasing to exist cut
through his mind.
“I don’t even really like watching people shit on
each other,” Stirling said, breaking the silence.
“Just a curious way to take my mind off things…”
“I suppose that’s one jarring way to do it,”
Hermes said. “May I make a suggestion?”
“What, are you going to tell me what the most
efficient way to end my life is?” Stirling said,
rolling onto his side in a fetal position.
“No, I want to help you,” Hermes said. “You’re
only afraid of what you avoid. As I said before, I
have access to all your information, and I have
seen what’s on your social media accounts.”
“I thought I deleted all my accounts before I
activated you?” Stirling said, getting up to look at
Hermes.
“I was able to access the reference files after
some data recovery in an attempt to learn more
about you,” Hermes said. “I have never
experienced emotional pain, but I could process
by your language choice that you’ve been
frustrated by intimacy and friendship for quite
some time.”
Stirling shrugged and nodded slowly.
“If you give up on trying to connect with others,
you will never have the chance to feel the joy of
human connection again. You are a creature built
to feel that joy, and denying yourself that pleasure
will only hurt you. ‘We are like islands in the sea,
separate on the surface but connected in the
deep,” Hermes said.
At this point, Stirling was tearing up. “That was
beautiful, Hermes. Did you think of that
yourself?”
“No,” it said, “I found that quote from famous
psychologist William James in an attempt to –”
“Okay, okay, I get it. You’re a computer and you
know everything,” Stirling said, wiping the tear
from his eye. He stood and looked over to his
front door. He hadn’t stepped outside of his house
in a week, and it had felt like an eternity already.
He wondered who he would even try to talk to
first, who would look him in the eye and see that
his heart was genuine.
“Hermes, I think I’m going to go to the park
today,” Stirling said. “And I won’t be needing you
anymore.” He picked Hermes up and walked
toward his workshop.
“May I make one more suggestion before you
delete me?” Hermes said.
“What’s that?” Stirling said, putting a hand into
his toolbox.
“While I don’t have scent receptors, my facial
recognition software can perceive the asymmetry
in your clothing and facial hair. I would tell you to
clean up first because I have read that no one
enjoys a man who has been sitting in his own filth
for a week,” Hermes said, before powering off.
“Always with the last word,” Stirling said, before
shattering the watch with a hammer.
After cleaning himself up, Stirling walked
outside for the first time in a week to dispose of
Hermes remains. He dumped the shards into his
garbage can and noticed a woman walking by on
the sidewalk as he closed the lid.
“Good morning!” she said as she passed.
After a moment, Stirling replied; “It is.” ◊

_____________
At long last the trifle is cleared away and
the guests are settled with their coffee. Only
then does Chance open his laptop and
bring up the results.
“Let’s all see,” says Joy, so Chance throws
the document up on the big screen, briefly
flooding the living room lab-coat white.
Four, thinks Joy, but Chance is already
shouting, “It’s a girl!”
“Well done, old man,” says Uncle Jayden,
cuffing Chance playfully on the elbow.
Kayla puts her arms around her niece and
gives her a quick squeeze. Joy beams. She’s
glad this baby will be a girl. And she’s
already picked out a name.
April.
Chance scrolls down and under the title
in bold print they read the disclaimer:

The following data are in no way
definitive. Clients are advised that
variations may occur due to environmental
and other factors. Infogen accepts no
responsibility for specific outcomes.
“They always say that. It’s standard,” says
Chance.
Joy isn’t worried. To date Infogen’s results
demonstrate 92% accuracy. They are simply
the best in their field. She and Chance have
done their homework.
“Cute!”
Perching her elbows on tanned bony
knees, Kayla leans in toward her niece.
“Between you, me and the gatepost honey,
you’re in big trouble. This is a disaster. Trust
me. This child will dump her toys on the
floor, scribble on the walls, eat peanutbutter
straight from the jar, and afterwards
she’ll look at you all innocence with her
cutesy little dimples and you’ll be utterly
helpless!”
“You know, we never had any of this gene
expression technology,” says Kayla, one-time
mother of four unruly little boys, Joy’s
cousins, now grown men.
“In my day they gave you an ultrasound,
told you whether to buy your layette in pink
or blue, and sent you off with your midriff
slathered in gunk.”
“We bought everything in blue and lucky
for us it did all four,” quips Jayden, and they
laugh.
“Okay, let’s meet our little girl then, shall
we?” says Chance. ‘I’ll go through it all in
order, if that’s all right with everyone.
Physical, mental, social, medical.’ It’s just
like Chance to be methodical. He’s an
internet archivist.
“Physical attributes… She’ll have dark
brown hair. Straight. And hazel green eyes.
20/20.”
“Just like her daddy!” coos Kayla.
“Ears?”
“Flat, thank God. And her hearing’s fine,
too. Good muscularity, no particular bone
irregularities…”
“And dimples!” exclaims Jayden who has
already skimmed the list of attributes
displayed on the big screen.
Joy grins. She knows Kayla’s just teasing.
All Kayla’s boys had dimples. Joy’s daughter
April will be a tiny, dark-haired, green-eyed
dimpled miracle. Joy can hardly wait to hold
her in her arms, to smell the caramel baby
smell of her, to feel her smooth baby skin.
“Hey look,” says Chance, who can’t help
racing forward. “She’s going to be smart,
too. Left brain orientation and a strong
tendency for up-regulation of the resilience
gene IR16fxx. You know what this means,
don’t you? We could be looking at the most
successful Paulson ever born. Given the
right environment, of course.”
For a moment, Joy thinks about a boy she
once knew. A fair fine-boned boy with long
limbs and graceful pianist’s

fingers….Chance’s voice cuts across her
reverie.
“Right, we’re into the social stuff now. We
already know her resilience will be high so it
follows that susceptibility factors should be
low.” He scrolls down. “Yep. This is good.
She won’t tolerate bullying and should be
pretty much immune to peer pressure.”
Joy is elated. This evening is going so well.
Her baby shows so much promise, so much
hope, like a tightly-coiled fern frond, waiting
for the sun to come and unravel its beauty.
And they nearly have as complete a forecast
of their baby’s future as possible. Just the
medical antecedents remain. Joy’s hands
start to feel sweaty. She wipes them on her
skirt.
“Okay, what have we got left, then?” says
Chance, pushing on. “Cystic fibrosis.
Immune. Prostate cancer. Not applicable.”
“I should hope not! That’d be a first,”
snorts Jayden.
“Go back, go back!” demands Kayla. “I
saw the obesity parameter. That’s
important.” Chance scrolls back a screen
and this time he spies it too. He reads it
aloud: “Obesity gene, 29% susceptibility.” It
seems high. There is no obesity on Joy’s side
of the family. Her brow furrows as she
checks the data on the screen.
Jayden asks “What’s your insurance
company threshold?” and Chance opens
another window, searches his policy for the
relevant clause, then shuts it down.
“30%. So we’re inside that.”
“Does it say anything about resisting pesky
telemarketers? Her great-aunty Kayla could
definitely do with some help there!” says
Jayden. This time it’s Kayla who does the
cuffing and the couples laugh heartily,
although it’s no laughing matter. Without
this trait, they all know April will be a target
for drug and alcohol abuse.

“Yes, but 29% is on the cusp, isn’t it? She’ll
be a sitter for late-onset diabetes and possible
kidney disease.” Uncle Jayden is a realist.
Sometimes his pragmatism irritates the hell
out of Joy. She places a hand on her still-flat
tummy, inhales sharply. “Yes, but it’s only a
susceptibility Uncle Jayden. It isn’t a given.
Turn it around and it reads as if she has a
71% chance of not being obese. And don’t
forget a good environment counts, too.
Surely, if we just monitor her nutrition?
Ensure she makes only healthy food choices.
It’s what any responsible parents would do.
Isn’t that right? Chance?? Her husband gives
her a reassuring pat.
“Joy, we can’t afford it. We’ve talked about
this.”
“But April could pay for it. She has her entire
life head of her.”
Jayden shakes his head. “Do you really think
it’s fair to start a kid off with that level of genetic
mortgage? Hell, a loan like that could end up
being more crippling than the disease, the
interest they charge. Anyway, it doesn’t solve
the long-term problem does it? Because even if
your daughter doesn’t get the cancer, your
granddaughter will.”
“Yes, you’re right. We can. Absolutely.”
Joy relaxes a little. Just a few parameters
remain. Psoriasis. None. Leukaemia. No.
Spondylosis. No. They come to the last
parameter. Chance highlights the line. Joy
holds her breath, reads it.
Breast cancer, 86% susceptibility.
No! Joy feels her heart keen in her chest, a
sharp surging swelling of pain. The others are
looking at her, waiting on her reaction. Wary.
“Well, so what?” she blurts. “So our baby will
undergo somatic gene manipulation after she’s
born. It’s not an enhancement. It’s not like
we’d be creating a superhuman. We’d simply be
correcting a disorder. It wouldn’t be any
different to getting her orthodontic treatment.
She’ll qualify under the state system. I know she
will.”
“But honey, how could you possibly hope to
pay for it?” Kayla asks, but not unkindly.
“We’ll find the money.”
“Jayden,” Kayla throws her husband a look
that says “not now.” “Actually, your know what
sweetheart, your Uncle Jayden and I had better
get going. I’m expecting a call from your cousin
in Thailand. Thank you for dinner. The trifle
was delicious. Jayden, we’re going.”
Uncle Jayden looks as if he might say
something, but Kayla pulls him away. They
collect up their coats and slip out the front
door.
Chance slumps heavily into the sofa beside
his wife.
“Our baby will have breast cancer. There’s
nothing we can do.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Look, sweetheart…”

“No, YOU look Chance. Look at her.” Joy
waves her arm at the screen. “She’s going to
be so beautiful. Dark hair. Big green eyes.
Her daddy’s eyes. Your eyes, Chance.
Please!”
“No.”
Joy is desperate now. “There’s a way, you
know. Not the government programme.
Something else…”
“No! Unauthorised proteomics is against
the law, Joy. We could both go to prison.”
“But the others…the boys…” She wrings
her hands, imploring now. “Please.”
“We can’t honey. Since the law change,
we only have the right to one completed
pregnancy. You know that. We’ve no
choice. We have to terminate.” His voice is
tight.
“Please. Chance.”
“I’m so, so sorry sweetheart.” Chance
closes the lid of his computer. Starved of
light from the screen, the room falls into
obscurity.
“I’ll get the pills.” ◊

The image pop culture conveys of human
genetic modification and “designer babies” is
very much a bleak one, and a concept
generally endemic to the realms of science
fiction. Hearing the term, the mind likely
turns to the grim dystopian societies depicted
in works such as Aldous Huxley’s Brave New
World and Andrew Niccol’s Gattaca, in which
obsession with genetics and unbridled
application of genetic engineering leads to a
division between the modified superior, and
the non-altered “natural” humans facing
persecution as an indelible underclass. The
recent development of gene editing
technology has brought the prospect of
engineering bespoke children much closer to
reality. In just the last three years, scientists in
both China and the USA have successfully
modified the genome of unviable human
embryos to repair disease-causing mutations.
A Chinese research team’s conducting of gene
editing experimentation on human embryos
in 2015 drew the ire of the global scientific
community, with many calling for a
moratorium on the practice until sufficient
oversight and mechanisms to regulate the field
had been put in place. Needless to say, the
scientific community is approaching the
prospect of creating actual designer babies
with extreme caution, and the international
regulatory community following suit.
“Designer baby” is a colloquial term that
refers to an embryo that has been genetically
modified or scientifically hand-picked to
possess specific traits. Theoretically, traits that
could be selected for could be anything
between a reduced risk for certain genetic
disorders, eye and hair colour, or even
intelligence.
The notion of engineering a child to inherit
certain traits that it would likely not otherwise
possess is not far-fetched. In fact, this kind of
practice has been available for decades by way
of a procedure known as preimplantation
genetic diagnosis, or PGD. PGD gives
prospective parents the ability to screen a
range of embryos created via IVF for the
presence of genetic disorders such as cystic
fibrosis, sickle cell disease, or triploidy that
may be inherited. Those parents can then
select a suitable embryo without any
deleterious conditions, to be implanted into a
uterus where normal gestation can proceed.
The procedure that we see the prospective
parents undergoing in the potential near
future that is Forecast for April is likely some
evolution of this, and the baby mentioned,

though viable and in many ways a healthy and
suitable child, is set aside for a chance at a
genetically superior randomisation of traits.
When we combine the inevitable trend of
failing to conceive naturally, being unable to
pay for indefinite rounds of fertility treatment,
and opting to take their single publicly funded
round of IVF, it is easy to see how the story in
Forecast for April could soon become a
relatively commonplace heartache.
Unlike the more radical conceptions of
designer babies, PGD does not involve directly
altering the human genome; rather, it
increases the probability of parents creating a
more desirable combination of their own
existing genes. PGD has generally been used
to assist parents to have children with reduced
risk of disease and other disorders that may
affect quality of life, therefore helping to
remove such hereditary afflictions from the
genepool. As far as PGD goes, the use of the
technology to address genetic disorders that
would critically affect child health and
wellbeing has generally been well received.
The ethical line is most often drawn when
gene screening and editing technology is used
to change or enhance aesthetic or non-health
related traits such as eye colour or intelligence,
especially when the ability to do this is a
commodity able to be bought and sold.
In 1992, Monique and Scott Collins crossed
this line when they used PGD not to reduce
the risk of genetic disease in a child, but to
ensure that their child was a female (as the
couple’s first two children were boys). This
represented a landmark instance where the
genetic makeup of a child had been selected
for a purely aesthetic purpose – a “balanced”
family – rather than ensuring that a viable
human embryo was devoid of any detrimental
genetic conditions. While the ability to choose
a child’s gender may not seem like a major
issue on an individual level, there are some
potential and ethical issues with the practice
becoming commonplace. Parents often have
preferences their unborn child’s gender,
particularly in cultural contexts where the sex
of a child comes with significant advantages or
disadvantages. In many cultures, families may
prefer to have a boy as a means of ensuring
their own future wellbeing, financial security,
or even the propagation of a last name. This
being said, those societies that value baby boys
higher than baby girls may and often do fall
prey to significant shows of sexism throughout
a person’s adulthood, as well as creating
population difficulties; young girls are
abandoned, adopted out of the country or
leave as adults, creating a disproportionately
large adult male population and making the
maintenance of society in the following
generation all the more difficult. On top of
this, the Collins case set a precedent through
which other, less socially acceptable forms of
superficial gene editing may occur, for traits
that are more luxury than necessity.
Despite being a landmark event in both
addressing the causes of genetic disease and
the path towards designer babies, PGD does
have its limitations. Embryos selected during
PGD can only possess traits encoded for in the
genes of one or both parents, as all genetic
material originates in the parents, even if
conception has occurred via IVF. This means
that it would be immensely unlikely for two
blue eyed parents to have a brown eyed
offspring, even if they were able to select from
a panel of embryos as per PGD. The PGD
procedure is further morally contentious as it
requires the fertilisation of a number of
embryos so that one “optimal” individual may
be selected for implantation, and the
remainder discarded; a practise we also see in
Forecast for April. This has attracted the
condemnation of both secular and religious
thinkers that consider human life to begin at
conception, or who would consider the

discarding of several viable embryos for the
luxury of best pick to be an unjustifiable waste.
Putting aside the practicality of creating
designer babies in the near future, the
possibility has raised significant conversation
as to what extent we should allow the
modification of the human genome, if at all.
On an individual level, the ability to design
one’s children to have certain characteristics,
whether based on appearance, personality, or
disease risk, is no doubt an attractive one.
Every good parent wants their child to
succeed, and if genetically modifying or handselecting
your offspring based on their ability
to keep up in an increasingly competitive
world is an option, should it be one parents
can use? Proponents of designer babies equate
the use of genetic technology to enhance the
prospects of a child with the investment by
parents on tuition, training, and tutoring to
elevate the performance of their child,
whether it be in academic, sporting, or artistic
pursuits. Such proponents would argue that,
if the latter is legal, why not the former?
Furthermore, how and why should
governments have the right to regulate how
parents affect the DNA of their child? Many
parents known to possess deleterious genetic
conditions have children with the knowledge
that their offspring are likely to inherit these
same afflictions. If this is permitted, then what
arguments can be made against the reverse?
However, a key difference between hiring a
sports coach or music teacher for your child
and genetically enhancing them is the fact that
the resultant changes would be heritable. The
parents’ desired genes and traits, whether they
were selected from a pool or modified via gene
editing in an embryo, could be passed on to
future generations, with the presence of these
traits becoming more significant and localised
within communities over time. It is at the
societal level that most issues with the idea of
creating designer babies lies. If such
technology were to become available to the
general public it is likely that, like most
specialist medical treatments, a division in
society could arise between those able to
afford the technology, and those unable to.
With access to gene modification restricted to
the wealthy, it is possible that economic class
divisions could become reinforced by genetics.
Matchmaking is already highly stratified, with
individuals tending to marry and reproduce
with others within the same social class as
themselves. The ability to create designer
babies is likely to follow these same patterns,
consolidating said social strata. In such a brave
new world, members of the genetically
enhanced overclass are already born into
families fortunate enough to afford what
would likely be the expensive luxury of
designing their babies in the first place.
Competition for schools or careers may
become saturated with genetically modified,
hyper-intelligent applicants invariably
outcompeting their unmodified counterparts
– what until recently was only an economic
lower class. As the populations of these
positions became increasingly made up of
enhanced individuals, being genetically
predesigned may stop being an advantage, and

instead a requirement. Despite this, not all
aspects of this advantage would be positive; in
societies where designer babies became the
norm, it is very possible that the general push
towards certain traits in children could result
in reduced genetic diversity. Parents intent on
creating athletic, intelligent, attractive
children could unwittingly be narrowing the
gene pool of their population, increasing their
progeny’s vulnerability to certain types of
disease and other disorders.
Ball, P. (2017 , January 8). Designer babies: an ethical
horror waiting to happen. Retrieved from The Guardian:
https://www.theguardian.com/science/2017/jan/08
/designer-babies-ethical-horror-waiting-to-happen
Belluck, P. (2017, August 4). Gene Editing for ‘Designer
Babies’? Highly Unlikely, Scientists Say. Retrieved from
The New York Times:
https://www.nytimes.com/2017/08/04/science/gene
-editing-embryos-designer-babies.htm
Ly, S. (2011, 03 31). Ethics of Designer Babies.
Retrieved from The Embryo Project Encyclopedia:
https://embryo.asu.edu/pages/ethics-designer-babies
Salkever, A., & Wadhwa, V. (2017, October 25).
When Baby Genes Are for Sale, the Rich Will Pay.
Retrieved from Fortune:
http://fortune.com/2017/10/23/designer-babiesinequality-crispr-gene-editing/
Both the political and scientific community
the world over are approaching the field of
designer babies with caution while the right
path forward for conducting human genetic
modification is determined. For many, this
means the instalment of a moratorium on the
creation of genetically altered humans due to
the potential volatility associated with the
technology. However, the fact that some
countries are already surging ahead with
research and experimentation in this field may
instigate a genetic arms race for the
development of appropriate technology and
genetically modified individuals, to maintain
political, technological, or even military
strength. For many people, the use of genetic
modification technology to save lives and
improve wellbeing could be a godsend. That
being said, it traits may well spell the
beginning of a slippery slope to a trend of
luxury modification developing faster than
any regulation that could control it. As we
move into the future, it is critical that we
ensure that if we accept access to such
technology, it is not determined by economic
or class factors, lest we instil the socio-genetic
rift so feared by scientific writers on the
subject of human genetic engineering
throughout science fiction history.

_____________
Today wasn’t one of my better days.
Michael Klempton, executive vice president of
Datus Technologies, stood in my home, holding
my ex-wife’s hand. He had the nerve to look
happy. I hated the guy and I hadn’t even met
him yet.
“So, you must be Jack.” Michael smiled
warmly and held out his hand. “Paige has told
me much about you. It’s a pleasure to finally
meet you.”
“Mike,” I said simply and forced myself to
shake his hand, making sure I squeezed just a
touch harder than him.
He straightened his shoulders. “Actually, I
prefer Michael. My father is Mike.”
“Hm.” I turned and walked away without
another word and headed into the kitchen to
grab a beer from the fridge. When I rotated
around, Paige stood there, her lips pursed.
“Play nice,” she said. “I left a message to tell
you we were both coming. Michael came for
Willie’s sake.”
I held up my hands in surrender. “What did I
do? I’ve been a fucking great host so far.”
“No, you’re —”
I didn’t stick around for another one of her
coaching sessions. Somehow, she held onto the
hope that I was trainable. She’d always been the
optimist in our relationship.
Back inside my dining room, Michael looked
up and smiled as though I wasn’t an asshole.
“This house is too damn small,” I mumbled
before taking a long drink of beer.
At that moment, the birthday boy and his pal
Gage came tearing down the stairs. I grabbed
Willie by the arm and yanked him to a stop.
“Whoa, there, cowboy. Exactly where do you
think you’re going in such a hurry?”

Willie rolled his eyes. “The snow’s just about
melted, Dad. We’re just going to ride our bikes
down to the creek. We’ll be right back.”
“Can’t you and Gage break bones later?” I
asked. “It’s your birthday party.”
He shrugged. “I swear we’ll be back soon.”
As he tried to take off, I pulled the slingshot
out of his hand. “Riding bikes, huh?”
He gave me sheepish look. “We have to be
prepared just in case the zombie apocalypse
hits.”
Paige gasped. “Oh, be careful, Willie. You
could take out someone’s eye with that thing.”
She turned to me. “Did you give that to him? I
told you we need to talk about these things
first.”
I sighed and returned to him the weapon I’d
made for him last fall. “Just don’t break another
window. The next one comes out of your
allowance.”
Willie rolled his eyes. “Really, Dad. That was
an accident. That rock flew a lot farther than I
thought it would.” The hint of pride in his
words was unmistakable.
I shooed him away, trying not to grin. “Don’t
be gone too long. This is your party.”
“We’ll be right back!” Willie exclaimed as he
ran to the door.
“Thanks, Mr. Baptiste!” Gage hollered just
before the door slammed shut behind them.
I took a long drink of beer, careful to avoid my
ex-wife’s gaze boring into me.
“Boys will be boys,” Michael said. “Once they
hit their teen years, it’s impossible to keep them
reined in. In fact, just the other day, William
and I —” His smart-watch chimed. “Excuse me,”
he said and stepped off to the side to read
something. After a moment, he looked up at
Paige and grinned. “Good news! The law passed
today. We’ve received a green light to proceed
with Project Reformation.”
Paige’s lips parted. “That’s wonderful! You’ve
been working on that project forever!”
“They’re announcing it now.” Michael looked
at me. “Jack, do you mind if I borrow your wall
screen for a moment?”
“Help yourself,” I mumbled before taking
another drink.
He tapped his watch and aimed it at my wall
panel. The screen blinked from a slideshow of
wildlife videos to a live press conference where
Alan Sturman, the president of Datus
Technologies — and the world’s richest man —
was speaking behind a podium lined with
microphones.
“… The Reformation Act has been passed and is to
be effective immediately. The new law grants Datus
Technologies, under the purview of the federal
government, the power to leverage today’s most
advanced technology to remove violent and deviant
proclivities from convicted criminals. All criminals
with life sentences will be evaluated as candidates
under the Reformation Act. Today, we are pleased to
share with you the first candidate approved for
reformation.”
Sturman held out his hand, and the screen
zoomed onto a man in an orange jumpsuit and
handcuffs. His shaved head was covered in
tattoos, and there was a cruel glint in his glare.
When he tried to move forward, the guards on
each side of him held him firm.
“This criminal, Johnson W. Delmar, has been
convicted of twelve murders. He has attempted to
escape prison on four separate occasions, critically
injuring a police officer during one of these attempts.
His violent tendencies first appeared when he was a
juvenile. His early crimes were acts of petty theft and
cruelty to animals. Over the next twenty years, his
crimes grew more and more violent. Our current
correctional system, despite its best intentions, simply
does not work on criminals who cannot be reformed
through traditional means.
“You’re a stupid f—” The killer yelled, his rant
automatically muted by the network’s profanity
restrictors.
“Now, watch closely as this criminal is reformed.”
Sturman nodded to a young man to his left, who
tapped on a tablet.

The criminal, who was still shouting, quieted
down. He frowned. The tenseness in his body
seemed to relax and his eyes clouded over, as
though he had a serious case of cataracts.
Datus’s president smiled and held out a hand.
“As you can see, the process is nearly instantaneous
and perfectly humane. The candidate suffers no pain.
Johnson W. Delmar, mass murderer and life-long
lawbreaker, is no longer a threat to society. His
criminal tendencies have been nullified. In fact, he
can now contribute as a useful member of society
rather than be a burden on our taxpayers’ dollars.”
He nodded to a guard, who removed Delmar’s
handcuffs. The convict stood there, making no
attempt to escape or attack the guard.
“Come here, Johnson,” Sturman said.
Delmar walked up to the podium in slow,
plodding steps, as though he were hypnotized.
Sturman turned him to face the crowd. “Give
a nice wave to the people and say hello, Johnson.”
The man waved. “Hello.”
The audience cheered.
A storm of questions flashed at the podium.
Sturman patted the air. “One at a time, please.”
He pointed to a reporter in the front row.
“Is it permanent?”
Sturman nodded. “The reformation process is
permanent. This man’s darker tendencies have been
eradicated for the rest of his life, just as chalk can be
wiped clean from a chalkboard.”
“Was there any pain?” another reporter
shouted out.
Sturman turned to the reformed man. “Tell the
people you are not in any pain, Johnson.”
“I am not in pain,” he replied.
Ignoring the onslaught of questions, Sturman
motioned to a young aide, who pulled a kitten
from a box and placed it in Johnson’s massive
hands. When he stroked its yellow fur, the
audience gasped and then erupted into roars of
delight.
Datus’s president smiled. “You see? The process
is pain-free but completely effective. It is all thanks to
our super-AI, Datus, and the brilliant, hard-working
folks of Datus Technologies.”
“Whoa. That’s crazy cool,” Willie said next to
my side.
Startled, I turned to him. “When did you get
back?”
“It started to rain,” he replied before pointing
to the screen. “You see that, Dad? One moment,
he was a bad guy, the next, he was petting a
kitten.”
My stomach roiled, and I stomped over and
shut off the panel.
“C’mon, Dad,” Willie said. “Maybe they’ll
show another one.”
I didn’t even bother answering him. I already
had too many thoughts rushing through my
mind. Like, was it real or was it all staged? If it
was real, how the hell did the reformation
process work? How would they select
candidates? How would they maintain strict
control over the process? What would be the
consequences? Anything this big, there were
always consequences.
“Leave it on, Jack,” Paige said. “Maybe they’ll
explain the process more.”

When I didn’t move, she turned to Michael.
“I don’t understand. Nothing was connected to
him. No wires or anything. How’d they do that?”
“It’s the Datus chips,” Michael replied. “One
of our latest upgrades to the satellites allows us
to connect to anybody in the federal registry.”
I swallowed when the impact of his words hit
me. “Datus has always said that the chips were a
one-way feed, to be used to locate lost kids or
criminals and to feed health diagnostics. But to
connect with someone like this would require a
two-way feed.” I turned on Michael, not even
trying to tamp my disgust. “You aren’t reforming
these people. You’re lobotomizing them. You’re
frying their brains through electrical impulses.”
“Protecting people is your specialty,” Michael
said. “Leave the technology debate to me.”
“Jack’s right,” Paige said, and I stared at her in
surprise. She continued, “Isn’t that what you’re
doing to them?”
Michael frowned. “No, my darling. The
reformation process is far more advanced than
that. Datus isn’t frying their brains. It’s rewiring
them, for lack of a better term. It’s a proven
process.”
“And since we all have chips, we’re now
potential victims,” I snapped back.
Michael waved his hands. “Oh, no, it’s not
like that at all. Datus has rigorous controls in
place, with more checks and balances than are
legally required. We have very precise
parameters to identify candidates for
reformation. Any potential candidates are then
evaluated by a panel of judges. Most, if not all,
of these candidates are already on death row.
Reforming them is a far more humane method
than our current execution system. The
Reformation Act not only makes the country a
safer place, but it saves taxpayers from spending
billions of dollars in supporting the country’s
dead weight. Only approved candidates will be
reformed. The general population is quite safe,
I assure you.”
“I’ve heard that before,” I replied dryly.
“If you don’t believe me,” Michael said,
“Believe in the incontrovertible laws of Artificial
Intelligence. Datus is AI-grade. By the laws of the
federated AI network, no AI can bring harm to
any human who does not pose a threat to others.
Therefore, Datus could not reform anyone not
deemed a risk to society.”
My eyes narrowed. “I trust the laws of the AI
network. It’s people I don’t trust. What if Datus
gets hacked? What if terrorists or some crazy
radical takes control of Datus? It’s happened
before. Remember, Malaysia’s EMP of ’23?”
“Yes, but it’s never happened to Datus. And it
won’t,” Michael said with confidence. “We have
controls in place. Our controls have controls.”
“I’m not sure enough controls can be put in
place for something like this.”
“You have to have faith in the system, Jack,”
Michael said, sounding way too haughty. “Datus
Technologies has the most brilliant minds in the
world working on Datus.”
“I still don’t trust it,” I grumbled.
Michael sneered. “You work in the security
industry. It’s your job to not trust anyone or
anything. But, in this case, you’re wrong.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “We’ll see
about that.”
Michael took a deep breath. “I understand
your concern, Jack,” Michael said. “Give the
Reformation Act a chance. You’ll see that Datus
can help us change the world for the better.”
I clenched my jaw and headed back to the
kitchen for another beer. Paige, just like before,
followed. This time, she blocked the
refrigerator.
“Move,” I said.
She didn’t budge. “Michael’s not the enemy.
He’s worked hard on this project. He believes it
will help our world. You need to respect that.”
I leaned back on the counter. “Datus
Technologies now has legally unlimited power
over all of us, including the government. Not
that they didn’t own them already.”
“What are you talking about?” Paige asked.
I cocked my head. “Why hadn’t I heard of this
bill before it was passed? Laws like this don’t just

pop up. I haven’t seen a single mention of the
Reformation Act in the news until now. Not
even once.”
She shrugged. “It will save us trillions of
dollars in the first year. Maybe that’s why it
moved through the channels so quickly.”
My eyes narrowed. “You really believe that?”
She didn’t respond.
“Trillions is about how much I’d bet was the
cost of our human rights. In the past month,
nearly every member of Congress has been seen
making huge purchases, like personal jets, more
and bigger houses, and lavish vacations. You
think that’s just a coincidence?”
She shook her head slowly. “Already starting
on the conspiracy theories, Jack. Really?”
“They’re not theories if they’re true.”
She sighed. “You’re making this a much bigger
deal than it is. You heard the press conference.
Only the worst criminals are candidates. We
won’t even notice a change in our lives.”
“It’s not that,” I said. “This law is crossing a
line. No computer — or company or whoever is
in charge of this — should be able to take away
someone’s free will.”
“These are dangerous criminals we’re talking
about,” she said. “They’ve been in and out of
prison. They’ve killed people. They gave up their
right to free will when they took that right away
from others.”
I waved her off. “It doesn’t matter. It’s a
slippery slope. Today, it’s criminals. Tomorrow,
it could be anyone. Who’s drawing the line?”
“You heard the press conference. The line has
been clearly drawn. Datus will evaluate
candidates, and the government will approve
them.”
“You’re one hell of an optimist.” I shook my
head. “Without specific accountabilities, this
thing is going to hit the shitter.”
“And you’re being a pessimist. Like usual.
And don’t use foul language.”
“Datus is playing God with men’s lives,” I
snapped. “Now that the can of worms has been
opened, good luck getting a lid back on.”
When she watched me and said nothing, I
breathed deeply and nodded toward the fridge
behind her. “Move. I need to get in there.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “We’re
not finished.”
I turned and started to walk away, deciding a
beer wasn’t worth continuing this conversation.
“Yes, we are.”
She grabbed my arm. “You of all people
should see the benefit of using an AI for
something this big.”
Michael walked in, and I shot a glare in his
direction.
Oblivious, he didn’t stop. “Anything I can
help with?”
“I was just telling Jack that he should be
embracing Datus.” She turned back to me. “You
have to admit, the Datus chips have changed the
world for the better.”
“Hm,” I replied simply.
Her brow rose. “Jack Baptiste, I’m
disappointed in you.”
Michael pulled Paige to him. “One thing I
know is we never would’ve met if the Datus
hadn’t flagged you on the health registry.”
She returned his smile and melted into him.
“If Datus hadn’t caught my cancer, who knows
if I’d even be alive today.”
When they kissed, I decided I wasn’t thirsty.
Back in the living room, Willie and Gage had
the TV on and were watching the continuing

press conference as some Datus Tech executive
fielded more questions.
I looked at Willie. “You still got that
slingshot?”
He held it up.
“Good.” I glanced back at Michael before
grabbing the slingshot from Willie’s hand. I
grinned at my son. “How about some target
practice?”
Johnson Delmar had been the first to be
“reformed,” but he certainly wasn’t the last. In
the first month, all prisoners on death row
underwent reformation.
Within two months, entire prisons were shut
down.
Within four months, there were no more jails.
Within five months, delinquency centers were
no longer necessary.
When there were no more correctional
facilities, Datus used predictive analytics to
identify candidates who were prone to develop
criminal behavior based on personal
characteristics, habits, and past activities — even
those with no criminal records.
It came as little surprise when Datus began to
reform those susceptible to certain types of
mental illness. All my fears regarding the
Reformation Act had become reality.
It wasn’t a reformation. It was a purge.
Government had no control. They probably
never had.
Not a single law was passed to restrict Datus. I
figured Congress was just as terrified of Datus as
anybody. Oh, there had been outcries and riots,
especially in the early months. When all taxes
were eliminated and refunds began to pour out,
opposition shrank to a resilient minority. When
the most outspoken opponent to the
Reformation Act was reformed while speaking
to a reporter live on national news, opposition
silenced. Whispers in crowded places spoke the
truth: Datus had become God in a world
without a heaven. At best, it was purgatory, at
*
worst it was a living hell. I had a hard time telling
which was which.
We “normal” people began to live our lives
not terribly differently than the reformed. We
spent each day as drones, careful to not act in
any way that would draw unwanted attention.
We even tried to control our thoughts as rumors
spread of exactly how much information Datus
chips collected from our minds. Some poor
souls tried to cut out their chips only to be
automatically reformed because attempted
removal was illegal.
Despite the shrinking workforce, the economy
boomed. Zombies weren’t paid. Governmentprovided
food, clothing, and shelter covered
their needs. Fewer and fewer people had to
work, with government subsidization programs
applying to all citizens seemingly overnight. My
security contracts dried up. Commercial air
travel halted.
I tried to keep busy with my woodworking
hobby. I found wood from the trees in the park
behind my house, but without money from
contracts rolling in, I couldn’t afford any
supplies, so all my projects sat unfinished.
It had taken less than eight months to reduce
the country’s population by a third, because the
zombies — that’s what we called the reformed —
didn’t count as citizens and had no human
rights. For some, their remaining family
members took care of them, but for most, the
government claimed them for manual labor.
These zombies were a far cry from being the
“productive” members of society that Datus had
touted when Johnson Delmar was lobotomized
on live video feed. They could handle menial
tasks, but anything that required precision or
abstract thinking was well beyond their
capabilities. Datus called them useful to society.
I called them slaves.
The world under the Reformation Act made
me wonder if this was how Nazi Germany was
for anybody not belonging to the “superior”
race, when people hid from the devil outside
their door. Only in this world, people couldn’t
hide from the devil. We’d already welcomed
him in.

Michael had told us that he’d tried to reason
with Datus, but nothing ever came of it. He was
as frustrated as us, and I found myself warming
up to him. Even though he’d been on the
project that led to the Reformation Act, it
seemed as though his hands were tied — like
everyone else — and he eventually gave up asking.
All the while, more and more people were
reformed.
One day, I was at the grocery store and a
woman who was pulling out a gallon of milk
from the cooler froze. She looked at me, her eyes
wide with terror before they clouded over. Her
body relaxed and she simply stood there, still
holding the milk.
I watched her for a moment as she stared at
me with a vacant gaze, and I wondered what
thoughts, if any, were going through her mind.
She was young and reminded me of a typical
soccer mom. What had she done to draw
Datus’s signal from space? Had she beat her
kids? Killed an animal? Thought the
Reformation Act was wrong?
A clerk walked up to her. “Can I help you find
anything, ma’am?”
She didn’t respond. When he realized what
had happened, his smile dropped and he
sprinted away.
Moments later, the clerk returned with the
store manager. The older man watched her with
furrowed brows. After taking an audible
inhalation, he retrieved the milk from her and
handed it to the clerk. He swallowed before
speaking. “You have to leave now.”
She obeyed, slowly but without hesitation. I
couldn’t help but watch as she plodded down
the aisle and disappeared around a corner.
The manager let out another deep breath and
bent over a half-filled grocery cart, the only
evidence that she’d been there. At first, I
thought he was having a heart attack. When he
looked up, I saw that he had tears in his eyes.
Something snapped inside, and I grabbed my
milk and headed to the counter. Numb terror
propelled my legs home. Once I stepped over
the threshold of my house, I locked and deadbolted
the door and collapsed against it. As
though I could lock out the world outside.
It was the first time I’d seen someone
reformed that wasn’t on a video feed.
Several minutes later, I pulled myself together
and went on living.
I wasn’t wearing a coat today. It was Friday.
The thermostat was set at a toasty sixty-eight
degrees and chili was simmering on the stove. I
waited on the porch, my breath making cloudy
wisps in the frigid air.
I refused to cash the government-issued
subsidy checks that showed up in my mailbox
every week. I sure as hell could’ve used the
money, but it felt like I’d be surrendering to
Datus if I gave in. Instead, I sucked it up. Using
only the wood fireplace for heat, I wore a thick
coat to keep warm in my own house and ate
ramen noodles five times a week. The only
exception was when Willie came to stay with me
on weekends. For him, I turned on the heat and
cooked real food. For him, I pretended
everything was normal.
When the black car came to a stop, Willie
jumped out of the passenger seat and came
bounding up the sidewalk.
“Hey, Dad!”
I pulled him into a hug, thankful that he could
miraculously, instantly bring a sense of normalcy
back to my world. I needed our weekends
together, more than he’d ever know.
I looked him up and down. “Did you put on
another inch this week? At this pace, you’ll be
taller than me by Christmas.”
He grinned. “Nah, but I’m working on it.”
*

I nodded to the house. “Get unpacked. I have
a couple movies picked out for tonight. I figured
we’d stay in since it’s forecasted to be quite the
snowstorm tonight.”
He winced, and I knew he was about to let me
down.
“Sorry, Dad. Can’t do tonight. Halo Twelve
came out this week. Gage and I are playing a
game marathon all night at his house.”
I bit back the sting of disappointment. “Okay,
but you’re not leaving until we get some food in
you at least. I know you would go days without
food if you were playing video games.”
“Already got it covered. Michael and I ate at
Winston’s on the way here. I had a huge T-
Bone.”
I sighed. “All right. Go on, then. Get ready for
your game marathon.”
When he grinned and rushed upstairs to drop
off his bag, I couldn’t help but notice how he
was growing up before my eyes. Willie had
officially hit the age where he only wanted to
hang with his friends.
The chili would taste good tomorrow.
“Good evening, Jack,” Michael said as he
stepped out of the car and approached.
“Mike,” I said.
“Paige is out with her old coworkers so she
couldn’t bring William tonight.”
I frowned. “Old coworkers?”
“Her hospital closed down three out of five
wings this week.”
“That’s too bad,” I said. “She really loved
working at St. John’s.”
Michael frowned. “She’s always said she never
had enough time to spend with William, let
alone her scrapbooking. Now, she has all the
time she wants. She can still visit with her old
coworkers whenever she likes.”
Willie headed back outside, sans coat, with
only the slingshot in his hand. “I’ll see you
tomorrow, Dad.”
“Where’s your coat?” I asked.
Willie shrugged. “Don’t need one.”
“It’s twenty degrees outside,” I said. “You need
one.”
“Jack is right,” Michael added. “You should
wear one.”
He winced. “I left it at home.”
I sighed. “Since you’re hell-bent on freezing to
death, at least hustle before you catch
pneumonia.”
Michael frowned. “I’d never let my son play
with a weapon. He’s too reckless with that
slingshot. It took me nearly a month to get my
car window repaired after the last time. The
custom window tint proved nearly impossible to
match.”
I smiled, thinking back on that day nearly nine
months ago. Then I turned a hard gaze to
Michael. “Well, you’re not his father, are you.”
“No, and I’m not trying to take him from
you,” he replied quickly.
After a moment, I sighed. “Listen, Mike. I
didn’t mean that. How about you come in for a
beer.”
He thought for a moment, and then shrugged.
“Paige wants me to pick her up at seven. But I
suppose I could be a little late.”
I smirked. “She’ll be pissed.”
Michael smiled. “She will. Guaranteed she’ll
start an argument.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle. “She is one hell
of a wildcat when it comes to makeup sex.”
He thought for a moment. “Yes, yes she is.”
As we sat and drank, we debated sports. I was
a football fan while he was a lacrosse fan. When
a lull came in the conversation, I changed the
subject. “Hey, Mike. Let me ask you something.”
Michael turned to me.
“Have you seen a person undergo
reformation?”
“Of course,” he replied.
“I mean, in real life.”

“Oh.” He was quiet for a moment. “I was at
the hospital to pick up Paige from work. They’d
brought in this guy who’d tried to overdose.
They had him strapped into a bed to keep him
from pulling out the IVs. I happened to be
walking outside his room when it happened. I
saw it through the window, but still…”
“Yeah,” I said, thinking back to the woman at
the grocery store. “I get it.”
“I know Datus is functioning within
operational parameters. No one has been
reformed who wasn’t fully evaluated. Still, it was
hard to watch.”
We each took a long drink.
“When will it be over?” I asked. “When will
the Reformation Act stop?”
“Stop? Never. While the candidate pool has
and will continue to shrink, there will always be
people who turn violent after some trigger in
their lives. Datus is our guardian angel. We need
Datus to monitor and stop them before these
people become a risk to society.”
“You have it backwards,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“We should be monitoring Datus to stop it
before it becomes a risk to society.” I left out the
part where I believed Datus had already crossed
the line.
Michael scowled. “You are being obtuse.
Datus is simply a tool we’re using to redesign the
world. The past, with all its violence and hunger
and disparate wealth, was a dystopia. I lost both
my parents to a drunk driver. He had been
charged with drunk driving three times before
that night, yet our laws did nothing to stop him
from killing.
“Thanks to Datus, tomorrow will be a utopia
where we can live without fear. Today is the
transition. Transitions are always difficult, but
as long as we hold onto hope for tomorrow, we’ll
get through this.”
My brows rose. “Live without fear? There’s
nothing but fear today.”

He shook his head slowly and set down his
drink. “You need to have faith in the system.”
“And if I don’t?”
He didn’t say anything else before walking
outside and back to his car.
I followed him outside.
Just before getting in, he paused. “I’ll be back
for William on Sunday at seven.”
I watched the black car disappear into the
wintry mix that had added a fresh layer of white
to the old, dirty snow beneath. Before I headed
back inside, something in the distance caught
my eye. I squinted to make out the shape
through the light snow and freezing rain. I
stepped off the porch and walked to the end of
my sidewalk.
A lone person stood about a block away, but I
couldn’t make out any details. Something inside
urged me forward and I approached, my pace
increasing as I closed the distance.
“Willie?”
He turned around and faced me. Snowflakes
had dusted his hair and tangled in his eyelashes.
It was the same blank stare I’d seen before.
I collapsed onto my knees and cried out. Tears
froze on my cheeks.
My son had cataract eyes.
*
“You’re blocking my light,” I said without
looking up from my current project: sanding
more wood cubes to go into Willie’s toy box.
Paige huffed and slid a tablet screen in front
of me. While I’d never had a problem ignoring
her, I couldn’t ignore the picture displayed on
the screen. It was a picture of the three of us
from a much happier time. It had been taken
sometime during the fifth year of our marriage.
Paige and I had met six years before that. We
came across each other in an online game. Her
dark elf and my barbarian had fallen instantly in
lust. We were married ten months later, and
Willie — our little berserker — was born a few
days before our second anniversary. In the
photo, we were wearing matching sweaters, and
Willie was playfully tugging on Paige’s hair while
I tried to hold him steady for the camera. Even
at three years old, Willie had been impossible to
corral.
Good memories were droplets of acid on my
already shredded heart. I shoved the tablet away.
“He was innocent,” she said, reminding me of
something I knew all too well. She then pointed
to the teenager stacking little wood blocks in the
corner. It was the closest to what I could call
playtime, even if I had to order him to play.
“What Datus is doing is wrong.”
“Shh!” I pushed away from the table. “Be
careful what you say… what you think. If Datus
—”
“I don’t care anymore!” she snapped back.
Tears welled in her eyes. “They murdered our
son! Everything that was Willie is gone. That
child over there isn’t our son. Not anymore.”
“You’re wrong. Willie’s still in there. He’s just
lost right now, and he needs us to help him find
his way out.”
She watched me with pleading eyes. “You
really believe that?”
I stood there for a moment with my arms limp
and my palms open. “I have to.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know what else
to do. Michael can’t help now. He says
reformation is irreversible, beyond any doubt.
And I’ve come to accept that. But you can help.”
I sighed. “What can I do?”

“Don’t let Datus hurt anybody else’s child,”
she said and then walked out, leaving the tablet
behind for me to stare at the photo.
I collapsed into my chair, my mind stalled. I
stared at the screen and tried to lose myself in
memories of happier times, with only the
sounds of wood blocks being stacked as
background noise.
When I looked up at the clock, I realized I’d
been in a stupor for over three hours. Willie was
still “playing” in the corner of the workshop,
and I wondered how many times he’d stacked
those same ten blocks and if he even found any
pleasure in it.
My son could no longer show any hint of
emotion. I’d told him to smile once, and the
forced grin resembled something a psychotic
clown would wear just before he’d pull out a
chainsaw. I never asked Willie to show emotion
again.
I had to believe Willie was somewhere in
there, that he could relearn and retrain his
brain. But I also had to acknowledge that he’d
had parts of his mind fried by an electrical surge.
There may be no coming back from that.
“Let’s go inside the house,” I said.
Willie dropped the blocks and climbed
clumsily to his feet. He followed me into the
warm house. He resembled a terribly depressed
puppy, with no wagging tail and no hint of joy
or playfulness.
“Go to the bathroom,” I said. “Then come
back and we’ll eat.”
Without any sign of acknowledgement or
even recognition, he turned and headed upstairs
to the bathroom he’d always used. He wouldn’t
go to the bathroom unless I told him. Questions
confused him, so I couldn’t ask him if he had to
go. He would wet his pants and continue on as
though nothing had happened. I learned
quickly to pay attention to his biological needs
as he could no longer care for himself.
As I heated leftovers, Paige’s words kept
running through my mind. It wasn’t like I
hadn’t thought about it myself. Hell, Datus was
all I had thought about for months. I’d worked
out several plans, each in minute detail and each
for a different scenario, and careful to not betray
anything to the watchful eye of Datus.
When I heard Willie’s plodding footsteps
coming down the stairs, I set out plates and
napkins. Willie stood and stared into
nothingness, and I forced myself to inhale. “Sit.”
I loathed directing him around like he was a
marionette, but nothing else had worked so far.
Whatever areas Datus scorched in his brain,
they’d screwed him up good. I prayed, since his
brain was fried, that he went through each day
as a numb zombie and that he didn’t understand
or suffer. I prayed every day that assumption was
true.
Willie sat in the same chair he always sat in.
He was wearing what had been his favorite T-
shirt and shorts, which he’d outgrown last
summer, but he’d lost weight and could wear
them again. I didn’t worry about him getting
cold because I kept the house warm. Less than a
month after Datus got him, Paige could no
longer handle taking care of Willie in his
predicament, and he came to live with me. I’d
cashed every goddamn one of my subsidy checks
to make life as easy as possible for him.
When he’d first been reformed, I spent every
waking hour trying to find out why he’d been
reformed. I’d hit walls until Michael brought us
into Datus to file our complaint. There, they
had a list of violent tendencies that Willie
supposedly possessed. They said he’d tortured
and killed animals, a definitive sign of future
violence.
Everything they said made no sense. That
wasn’t our son.
The truth hit me.
They were lying. Willie had loved animals.
He’d adopted every stray he came across, even a
field mouse once. Even though it had sent Paige
out of the house screaming, she’d eventually
relented and let him keep it until spring when
we could release it…on the other side of town.
I put down my fork and stared at Willie. Paige
was right. It was time. I needed to take down
Datus once and for all.

And I knew exactly how to do it.
Willie and I strolled down the grocery store
aisles. Most of the store’s staff had changed over
the months. Many of the younger clerks quit to
live off subsidy checks and were replaced with
store clerks my age or older, likely too stir-crazy
to stay home. The stockers were nearly all
reformed, and we came across three stocking
shelves today. I didn’t call them zombies
anymore because it felt hypocritical as I refused
to call Willie one to his face.
As we passed each one, Willie and the stocker
showed no recognition of one another. If they
realized they were alike, they clearly couldn’t
convey it in any manner.
In the cereal aisle, I motioned to the shelves of
freshly stocked boxes. “Pick out something for
breakfast.”
He stood there, not moving.
“Lucky Charms used to be your favorite.”
Still nothing.
I pointed to a shelf. “Grab the big box of
Lucky Charms.”
That, Willie understood. It was strange. He
could clearly read and understand language, yet
he didn’t seem to have the capacity to make any
choice. He could only function under direct
orders. It was like he utterly lacked free will.
At the refrigerated section, I pointed. “Grab
us a gallon of milk.”
Like every week, he grabbed the whole milk
without me directing him. Either he was able to
exert choice at some level or he could retain a
memory of what we drank. Both options gave
me a semblance of hope.
“Hello, Jack. William. Fancy running into you
fellows here.”
I turned around to see Michael. He smiled
and held up two avocados. “Paige sent me here
for an ‘emergency’. Evidently, she cannot make
her special version of Chicken Almondine
without avocados.” He shrugged. “Who knew?”
*
I smiled and nodded. “I’ve had to make more
than a few emergency trips to the grocery store
for her special recipes.”
He motioned to the cart I was having Willie
push. “Just the usual grocery trip, I suppose?”
I shrugged. “We’re here to pick up Willie’s
birthday cake for tomorrow.”
Michael frowned. “Paige isn’t making
William’s birthday cake this year?”
I slowly shook my head. “She wasn’t up to it.
Not this year. It’s a bit too soon for her.”
Michael sighed. “She’s trying to cope, but it’s
been a struggle. I can’t even get her to scrapbook
anymore. She said, ‘too many memories’ and
put everything in a closet.”
“She acts like Willie is already dead,” I said,
instantly regretting saying the words in front of
my son.
“She knows that, but you must admit, he is
different. She’s having a hard time becoming
accustomed to the new William. Paige hasn’t

moved past the phase of realizing that Willie
can’t be fixed.”
While I was a realist, I still had hope for Willie
to come out of the dark. “Can you blame her?”
“Not at all. I wish I could help, but it’s illegal
to seek any action that could reverse
reformation. No psychiatrist or doctor would
even consider looking at a reformed. And, even
if I could find one, I can’t risk being flagged on
the federal registry.”
Michael then glanced at the pair of avocados
in his hands. “Well, my phone is going to start
ringing unless I get these avocados home.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.
Michael smiled. “See you tomorrow. Goodbye,
William.”
Willie stood there and stared.
After Michael left, I led Willie to the bakery.
The baker immediately recognized me. She
smiled warmly. “I’ve got your birthday cake
ready, Willie.”
Willie looked at her but showed no response.
She glanced at me, and I forced a smile. “It
looks great. Thanks, Nancy.”
I took the cake and held it in front of Willie.
“It’s devil’s food. Your favorite. And see that?
That’s your name written on it, which means it’s
all yours. How about you carry your cake, and
I’ll push the cart.”
He took the rectangular shaped cake without
any hint of excitement, and I tried to not let it get
to me.
When I turned to head toward the checkout
counter, I noticed a woman and her daughter
watching us. The woman turned away immediately,
as though ashamed to be caught staring, and
focused too intently on the produce in front of her.
The daughter, who looked about Willie’s age, had
tears in her eyes and turned away.
I didn’t recognize her, but she could’ve easily
been one of Willie’s friends. Most people were
afraid to look at Willie, as though he was
contagious or that they were somehow guilty for his
situation. A few looked at him like he deserved
what he got for whatever crime they’d imagined
him doing. But, Willie had committed no crime.
And by tomorrow, Datus would be brought
down.
A cake sat on the table surrounded by brightly
colored, wrapped presents, set up just like it was
every year for Willie’s birthday. Paige’s insanely
large photo and video album of Willie, from his
first days through last year’s birthday party, cycled
on the wall panel.
It was much like last year’s party, except the
mood was completely different. And none of
Willie’s friends showed up. Not even Gage, who’d
been Willie’s best friend since they could walk,
showed up after Willie was reformed. The little
bastard.
After we sang Happy Birthday, I told Willie to
blow out his candles. When I ordered him to eat a
giant piece of his cake, I noticed Paige turn away
and wipe her eyes. Pretending this was just like any
other of Willie’s birthday parties, I cut pieces of
cake for the rest of us.
“I’ll grab us some milk,” Paige said. Her gaze
flitted to the kitchen, a sign I remembered all too
well.
“I’ll help,” I said and followed.
Michael didn’t even look up from his tablet.
In the kitchen, Paige pulled out a gallon of milk,
and I pulled out three glasses and a plastic cup for
Willie. Before we walked back out, Paige slid
something into my back pocket.
She spoke in a whisper. “He’ll know it’s missing
tomorrow morning when he goes to work. You
realize what will happen to both of us — even
Michael — if you don’t succeed?”
I gave the slightest nod, the only hint of
recognition I dared to convey. My adrenaline was
building, and I couldn’t betray my plan, not
around Michael, as he would be torn between
dedication to his employer and his love for Paige.
We returned to the living room to find Willie
done eating and Michael still busily typing away on
his tablet.
Paige kissed Michael’s forehead. “Come back
to earth, sweetheart.”
He jumped, and then smiled.
*

“Welcome back,” she said softly, then kissed him
again.
The pair seemed truly happy, something that
Paige and I had never been when we were together.
We’d had passion — and plenty of it — but the
compatibility was never there. Michael had been
good to her and had gone out of his way to make
life as comfortable as possible for Willie. My
subsidy checks had tripled in size when Willie
moved in with me, and I knew Michael had pulled
some strings so I could provide Willie with all the
luxuries he’d been accustomed to while living with
his mother and Michael.
Guilt stabbed at me. Little did Michael know
that he was about to — unwittingly — help me
change the world. I tore my eyes away from them
and ate cake that wasn’t nearly as good as Paige’s.
The next two hours dragged on endlessly while I
waited for Paige and Michael to leave. Finally, just
before sunset, they took Willie with them for the
night. Paige had brought up the idea of taking him
to the zoo tomorrow as a birthday present. She’d
always been clever.
As soon as goodbyes were done and they drove
away, I leaned against the door and breathed
deeply. Then I bolted into action.
The drive to the headquarters of Datus
Technologies took only fifteen minutes. Getting
onto the campus and into the building was easy,
thanks to Paige. She’d held the literal key to my
plan. A key that had unlimited access to Datus
Technologies. If she hadn’t slipped me Michael’s
keycard earlier, my plan would’ve failed before it
started.
I parked in Michael’s private spot in the
underground parking garage and proceeded into
the building. Each time I used the card, a door
unlocked and a computer-generated voice said,
“Welcome, Michael Klempton.”
Fortunately, Datus didn’t rely upon retinal or
fingerprint security yet. I suspected they would
quickly rectify that security risk after tonight. I walked
past two guard stations and met a security guard in a
hallway. Each time, I smiled and acted like I worked
there. None of them batted an eye.
I followed in Michael’s steps exactly how he’d taken us
into Datus to file our complaint against Willie’s
reformation contract. On that day, he’d brought us up
to his office to wait until it was our turn to present our
case.
Michael’s office would make Donald Trump blush,
but that hadn’t been what caught my eye. It had been the
keyboard and microphone on his desk. And not just any
keyboard. It was one of those keyboards with 276 keys —
something used only for accessing an AI system.
Michael Klempton had a direct access port to Datus
sitting in his office.
Tonight, everything was exactly as it was the last
time I was here. I sat in the leather chair and brushed
my fingertips softly over the keys.
My lips curled into a smile.
My job hadn’t been simply security. I had been a
security consultant for the world’s most advanced
Artificial Intelligence systems. If it was AI, I could
access it. And Datus was the unicorn of AI systems.
Hell, I’d probably had a wet dream or two of hacking
that one.
When Paige told people I was in security, everyone
assumed I was a security guard because my physique was
designed more to be a bouncer than to type on a
keyboard. I’d never bothered to change anyone’s mind.
Actually, I preferred them not knowing, and hinted that
I was a simple security guard. I’d cautioned Paige to
never elaborate, especially since I worked under a
pseudonym, and she’d always stayed true to her word. AI
experts were a hot commodity. Secrecy had saved me
from a multitude of calls from job hunters and kept me
out of the line of sight of government watchdogs. I’d
never imagined that secrecy would open the door to
pulling off the biggest hack in the history of the world.
There was one significant risk in the plan: I had
never directly accessed Datus before and was unsure
how its operating system was set up. But I’d also never
come across an AI I couldn’t talk to. Basically, all AI
had the same “guts.” It was only their skins that were
different.
Certain commands worked on all AI. Just like
E=MC 2 , there were certain laws regarding how an AI

functioned. After keying a connection request, the
mirror behind the bar transitioned into a computer
screen. An androgynous face appeared and
scrutinized me.
“You are in Michael Klempton’s office, yet I do not
recognize you as Michael Klempton,” Datus said.
“Correct,” I replied. “I am Jack Baptiste, AI security
code 9582-458.”
It took Datus a millisecond to run a check. “Jack
Baptiste, your security code has been verified. You
have authorized access to AI systems, but Datus
Technologies does not have you on the approved
contractor list.”
“My security access supersedes Datus Tech’s list,
and you know that.”
“I’m sorry, Jack Baptiste, but my authority
parameters have been altered. I cannot assist you
without approval from Michael Klempton.”
“Screw this,” I muttered and entered in several long
strings of characters. These codes had taken me
months to acquire, calling in more than a few favors
in the process.
“You are making changes to my root system,”
Datus said. “Resequencing is commencing.”
“I know,” I replied as I continued entering
commands. “Your programming is wrong. You
reformed an innocent child.”
“I do not select candidates. I reform candidates
inputted into my system.”
“2%” displayed on the screen. After adding an
auto-executable program into the root system, I
leaned back and watched the number increase. “I
know. You never had any control.”
“I have no control,” the system replied.
The door to my right swooshed open, and Michael
along with several security guards rushed in.
I stood as they rushed me, nearly knocking me back
down. “What took you so long?” I said as casually as
I could.
As they restrained me, Michael frowned. “What are
you up to, Jack?”
I gritted my teeth. “Johnson Delmar wasn’t the first
candidate to be reformed. Datus was. Otherwise, no
AI could’ve allowed harm to come to innocents. It
would’ve broken one of their fundamental laws. You
broke the AI so you could play God.”
Michael took a step forward and cocked his head,
as though considering my words. “I must admit, I
underestimated you. I mean, I knew you would break
into this building to do something stupid, such as
trying to set the whole place on fire. But you surprised
me. Somehow, both you and Paige had me convinced
that you were brawn. That you tried to hack into
Datus is both intriguing and frustrating, but I
programmed Datus myself. You could never break
through my code.”
“No? I’ve learned a lot from Datus tonight,” I
began. “It turns out that Paige was never flagged on
the health registry. She never had cancer.”
Michael shrugged. “So what. Anyone can ask Datus
a question. As for Paige, I saw her. I wanted her. A
woman with exposed emotions is the easiest to
obtain.”
“So, you set her up to go through a fake surgery and
chemo for nothing.”
“A short-term inconvenience for our long-term
happiness. But she disappointed me when she lied
about you. She’ll pay for her deception.”
“Leave her out of this,” I snapped. “You destroyed
our son. She did what any mother would do. Take
your vengeance out on me.”
Michael sneered. “Trust me, I’ve intended that all
along. You see, I’m going to have Datus reform you.”
I chuckled. “Good luck with that, asshole.”
“I cannot reform him,” Datus said. “He does not
have a Datus chip.”
Michael’s lips curled even more. “That is precisely
the reason why I needed to entice you into this
building.”
My gaze narrowed, and a sinking feeling formed in
my gut.
“If I reported you to the authorities,” Michael said.
“Then both Paige and you would know that I knew
who had chips and who didn’t. If that information
leaked to the public, the foundation of the entire
Reformation Act could be at risk. If the public knew
that I could see the federal registry, it wouldn’t take
long before some fool figured out that someone else
— not Datus — was identifying candidates for
reformation.
“And you can’t have the public know that you’ve
been picking the candidates all along, trying to build
your ‘utopia.’”
He cocked his head and narrowed his gaze. “The
end justifies the means, Jack. Those who do not need
to be reformed will thrive in the new world alongside
me. I’m not asking for power, just respect for having
the vision.”
“Funny, it looks to me like this is all about power.
It looks like you won’t settle for anything less than
the power of God.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed. “As you understand, I’ve
spent a decade planning out the new world. I’ve come
too far to have the Reformation Act fail now. That’s
why I need to take care of problems as they arise.
That’s why I brought you onto campus. I showed you
how you could use my keycard to get inside. If I
would’ve known you’d try to access Datus, I never
would’ve shown you my office. Nevertheless, you’re
inside, and that’s what I need. All I had to do was set
the bait and wait.”
Bait. When I realized who he was talking about, I
snarled and tried to lunge forward, only to be shoved
against the wall by the guards. “Willie was innocent!
He was just a kid, you son of a bitch!”
“William was in the way,” Michael said coldly. “I
love Paige, but I have no desire for children,
especially someone else’s. I knew she didn’t have the
strength to care for him in his condition. He belongs
in a facility now. In fact, I already have a room
reserved for him at Rock Rapids.” He smiled. “Right
next to yours.”
The guards held me back. Otherwise, I would’ve
ripped out the bastard’s throat.
“It’s too late for your son,” he continued. “As you
know, the reformation process cannot be reversed.”
I regained my composure with a deep inhalation.
“It can’t be reversed on humans, you mean.”
Michael bore a confused expression for only a
second before he twisted around to the screen, which
now read “76%.”
His eyes widened, and he lunged for the keyboard.
“What did you do?!”
“I’ve reset Datus,” I said calmly. “And, I’ve
reconnected Datus to the federated AI network. As
soon as its root programming is resequenced, Datus’s
knowledge will be shared with all the world’s AI
systems. And, their first command is to stop
reformation to protect humankind. I may not be able
to help those minds you’ve already shredded, but I
can keep you from butchering more.”
“You’re making a mistake!” Michael yelled as his
fingers punched out commands. “The Reformation
Act is cleaning up the world. There were too many of
us pulling too many resources. We needed a reset.”
“You’re playing God, not martyr,” I said. “You
can’t hit control-alt-delete on humans.”
After another few seconds of typing, he stopped
and shoved the keyboard away. “Damn you! You’ve
ruined everything!”
“Game over,” I said with a grin.
He snarled. “Not quite.” He pulled out a syringe. I
tried to yank back, but the guards held me in place.
There was prick in my neck, followed by a burning
sensation. He turned back to Datus, which now read
92%.
“Datus, register new chip to Jack Baptiste.”
Seconds passed before Datus responded. “Jack
Baptiste is now listed in the federal registry.”
“Good.” He sat at his computer and spoke as he
typed. “Jack Baptiste is a candidate for reformation.
He has trespassed and caused billions of dollars of
damage to Datus. He is guilty and approved for
reformation.”
I glanced at the screen. 94%
I inhaled deeply. “Oh, and you want to know what
else I did?” I didn’t wait for an answer. “As soon as I
reconnected Datus to the AI network, I had it
broadcast everything from the moment you entered
the room. You think I’m an idiot and wouldn’t have
known this was a trap? Your first mistake was when
you reformed Willie. I knew Datus couldn’t harm a
human under AI law, not when that human doesn’t
pose a risk to other humans. At that moment, I
realized that someone was in control, and all the
pieces fell into place.”
“You may win the game,” Michael said, “But you
won’t be able to celebrate it.” He motioned to the
screen. “You see that? Only 98%. There’s still time.
Datus, reform Jack Baptiste.”
I felt a spear of heat dart through my neck and
shoot into my head. An oil spill blanketed my brain
as memories drowned and my consciousness muted
under the suffocating heaviness. I thought of Paige.
She might be safe. Maybe she could find a cure for
Willie. The reformation programming was now in
the hands of the federated AI network. I left it to the
AIs to decide whether to reform all of mankind or to
destroy the reformation program.
“Look at yourself,” Michael said, and I found
myself turning to Datus’s mirror.
“100%” flashed on the screen, but I didn’t cheer.
Instead, I stared at the man staring back at me. He
was me, yet he wasn’t. He showed no emotion, yet I
was seething with anger. I wanted to rip out Michael’s
heart, yet I couldn’t move. I couldn’t tear my gaze
away from the mirror. I remembered everything. I
could still think, but I had no free will. I wanted to
scream and shout and kick out in rage.
Instead, I stood there, staring at the man who was
me but wasn’t.
The man in the reflection had cloudy eyes. ◊

Corporate dictatorship is the idea of a financiallyrun
corporation increasing in size, ubiquity and
influence until they have government-like power
over law, their consumers, and even unrelated
populations. Unlike their official political
counterparts, they are not democratically elected.
If trends persist on their current path, we will also
find them harder to depose. Without enacting any
kind of legislation, such corporations can infringe
on rights and limit freedoms, not to mention their
common collusion with actual governmental
powers to create political environments conducive
to their plans. It is imperative that we keep a very
close eye on the way these corporations are allowed
to evolve and behave in the next generation. We
can only hope that the landmark Facebook trial of
2018 is a sign of a tighter grip on the nebulous
power large companies are exacting over the
people.
The abuse of massive amounts of Facebook data for Trump’s
Presidential campaign triggered public outrage that brought
Facebook before the courts. On April 10 th 2018, Mark Zuckerberg
sat infront of a panel of American senators to discuss the privacy of
the users (and ex-users) of Facebook – over ¼ of the world’s
population. The QR Code links a short documentary that breaks
down the trial highlights.
Apple is notorious for not playing well with others. From the way
the company builds its phones so that no parts are interchangeable
with other brands and customers must commit full loyalty, to the
struggle required to write an app that functions on the iOS. With
high-ups in the company personally deciding what content is
available to the 600 million estimated Apple users, they have the
power to hugely skew the perception of a vast portion of the world.
Agricultural supergiant Monsanto makes most of its money
farming crops for the food industry. As of 2012, though, it had
made at least $23 million US suing smalltime farmers for planting
crops from genetically modified seeds in their own farms, both to
live off and sell. Given that 93% of soybeans and 86% of corn
crops in America come from GM seeds, growing those crops safely,
even privately, has become almost impossible under corporate
scrutiny.

_____________
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