Chapter 5
Bernie busied herself behind the counter, preparing a fresh batch of double chocolate caramel brownies. They had become a patron favorite since she trialed them in the 1990s, but they were darn difficult to make. Getting the caramel just right was always the hardest part for her.
“Freda, you put a smile on my face each time you walk through those doors,” she said, stirring a pot of hot golden caramel.
Freda smiled, but Bernie saw through it in an instant.
“That bad?” she asked.
“Ever want to freeze time? Or go back in time?” asked Freda. She accepted a teaspoon of warm caramel to taste, as the two women stood behind the shop counter talking quietly.
“Freeze time? No, never. I’d still come back to glasses in need of washing,” replied Bernie. “Wouldn’t mind going back in time, though.”
“I wish I could do both right now.”
“Game changer?” asked Bernie, still stirring the caramel but now looking at Freda.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Freda, if we could go back in time, every time we made a mistake, we’d never learn.”
“I’d take the chance,” said Freda.
“I’ll presume this game changer is not a good thing for us?”
“That’s the problem,” said Freda. “In many ways it makes absolute sense.”
“Just because it makes sense doesn’t mean it’s right,” said Bernie. “I could just buy crates of these desserts, instead of slaving away each day, on my own, making them from scratch.”
“But you wouldn’t?”
“No, Freda, I wouldn’t. Yeah, it would make good business sense and would cut down the amount of hours I spend on these old feet of mine, but it doesn’t mean it’s right. My customers expect them handmade. Your face tells me this isn’t right.”
“I don’t believe it is,” admitted Freda. She felt lost, unsure of herself. For the first time in a very long life, she felt morally lost.
“Well?”
“Sorry?” asked Freda, confused.
“What are you still doing here?” said Bernie. “Go get Christopher, and get to work.”
Freda laughed and put her hands out toward Bernie, who clasped them tightly. She said her goodbyes, refused a coffee to go, and entered the snow-covered alley in London. The city was bustling, with Christmas being only two weeks away, and the streets were jam-packed with eager shoppers. Kids played, firing snowballs in friendly fashion. Thick snowflakes were now falling in earnest, and Freda began a slow, careful track back to the main street. Her trusty, simple leather strap watch was actually an advanced tracker and was visually showing her which direction to walk to find Christopher.
As she walked, she observed the people around her. Was she to simply let the Council destroy something she considered unique among other civilizations? Could she really break rank against an authority she had served for thousands of years? Even if she did, would it make a difference? Too many questions, and not one answer, she reminded herself.
“Freda,” said Christopher, calling through the crowd. She turned and smiled. Christopher had certainly aged over the years, helping her run Section 51, but even now she saw the young, eager officer willing to serve his race, first and foremost. To live a life of secrecy and under the threat of assassination was not for anyone but the very bravest.
“Buy anything nice?” she asked.
He frowned. They had worked together too long for secrets.
“Something tells me I’m gonna wish I had.”
Freda smiled, giving him a deep stare.
“Shall we head back to HQ?” he said, nodding to a little side street with a few dark spots in it. They just needed a quick second’s privacy, allowing them to transport back to their underground bunker.
“Makes you appreciate our heating system,” said Christopher, as they reappeared in Freda’s office. “Coffee?”
“How about some vodka?” was Freda’s reply, removing her gloves and clearing the desk of paperwork. Despite always maintaining a tidy office, she felt everything was a mess now. Not just her desk, or Section 51, but everything.
“That bad, eh?” said Christopher, opening a small refrigerated drinks cabinet built into the front of her desk. It was flush with the wood, and unless you knew it was there, the vodka always remained hidden and chilled. He lifted out a large purple bottle of the fine spirit, along with two simple chilled glasses and an ice bucket.
“Single or double?” he asked.
“A double for me,” replied Freda as Christopher popped two ice cubes into each glass along with a reasonable measure of vodka and some blackcurrant cordial. He stirred both.
“To the job,” said Freda. They clinked their glasses together in a custom they’d maintained since Christopher began working with her. It was in a forgotten time when she’d plucked him from military school and into the depths of Section 51, but she remembered it well.
“We’ve been doing this a long time,” said Christopher.
“Little Italy’s,” said Freda. “Pizza brought my taste buds alive.”
“And you kidnapped me!” Christopher laughed, taking another sip.
“Well, you saved me from kidnapping, if we’re being specific. Then I realized you were just the type of person I wanted in Section 51.”
Their eyes locked, before heading downward to their drinks.
“That was a long time ago,” said Christopher.
“It was. We’ve both changed,” said Freda.
“Your waistline hasn’t.” Christopher’s eyes twinkled as he looked her up and down.
“Ha,” she said. “If only my waist was all I had to worry about now.” She took another slight sip, enjoying the sweet taste with a bite. Silence descended upon the room, and she appreciated the time to get her thoughts in order. She knew her right-hand man would already be thinking about the dozens of meetings he’d need to postpone.
“As you probably have gathered from our meeting with Cecil, we have a problem,” she finally said, staring into her glass.
She walked behind her desk, sitting down.
“Tell me about the Council meeting.”
Freda ran her finger across the rim of her vodka glass, finding her mind attempting to drift off, wanting to avoid the question. She knew Christopher was staring at her, and it dragged her back to a harsher reality.
“They want to sterilize every human who carries a genetic defect.”
“How many people would that be?” asked Christopher, choking on his drink.
“99.995 percent of the population.” She rattled the numbers off slowly.
“You do mean sterilization. Not being able to have kids?”
“That’s it exactly,” replied Freda. “They’ll leave around half a million able to procreate. The rest will, biologically, not be able to have children.”
“Obviously you’re not going to let that happen.”
Freda looked up at him, her eyes locking with his.
“Freda…” He stumbled to get the words out. “…You can’t let this happen. They don’t have the right!”
“I don’t know how to fight it. The Supreme Court, the weapon I usually threaten the Council with, is on their side. The Council fears humanity may become extinct, suffocating under an ill gene pool, and not take their rightful place among the stars with other civilizations. By sterilizing all but those who are genetically pure, in less than 200 years the human gene pool will be clean and thriving again. Humanity has been falling behind, in evolutionary terms, from the other five civilizations.”
“Who’s to say it won’t happen again?” he shot back. “I mean, pollution, antibiotic resistance—all those things that this won’t solve.”
“The Council has promised to provide help in those areas once the process has been completed. Purifying the atmosphere.”
“Are you trying to convince me or you?” asked Christopher quietly, setting his vodka on the table before lifting it again. He polished it off in one gulp.
“Both of us maybe?” she said meekly, setting her own drink down and holding her hands. She felt lost. Powerless.
“Freda … you know this is wrong.”
“The decision’s already been made. Hell, I have no say in it at all. Loretta has issued her orders, and we, her little minions, must follow them.”
“I never thought you considered yourself one of her little minions,” said Christopher.
“Neither did I.”
“So what are we supposed to do now?”
“Just keep doing your job. Section 51 must maintain…”
“Freda, you’re delusional if you think there’ll be any Section 51 left after this. There probably won’t even be a human civilization left after this. You think we are good at fighting each other? Wait till you see what happens when an outsider attacks. You’ll have the whole planet up in arms.”
She knew this and could already see the chaos and carnage that would spread across the world like a deadly virus as news broke. Not even the United States, with its vast global military, would be able to maintain world order. In fact, she suspected it would be leading the global outrage.
“If this goes ahead,” he continued, “I can’t promise to remain impartial.”
With a touch of sadness, she said, “I understand.”
“What if we convened an emergency meeting of the United Nations? See what the leading military powers think?” Christopher had to stop himself pouring another.
“I’d rather not, and it would be pointless anyway. We both know there isn’t much they can do, no matter how much they’re against it.”
“The president will refuse,” said Christopher. “Are you going to try and convince him otherwise?”
Freda didn’t answer that question. She hadn’t decided herself yet what to do. Either way, suffering was going to ensue for the people of this world. “What I will do is speak to Captain Grace and see if there’s precedent for contacting the head of the Supreme Court directly in this matter.”
“Freda, you need to inform the president first. He is the most powerful man on the planet, and the planet’s population is about to be neutered, like dogs,” said Christopher. He felt his chest tighten with the stress. “The president
must
be informed.”
Freda stared at him intently for a few moments, before lifting the red phone on her desk.
“Get Houston and Richards down here immediately,” she ordered her receptionist. They would be immediately ushered onto private planes and shepherded down to Section 51.
“They’ll be here within the hour,” said Sarah, Freda’s new receptionist.
“Thank you, Sarah,” said Freda, dropping the receiver back down. “Has Peter returned yet?”
“He arrived an hour ago,” Christopher replied. He checked his mobile phone and brought up a list of the staff in Section 51. There was a green dot beside Dr. Peter Roberts’s name, meaning he was in the building.
“Get him down here.”
“Done,” he replied. “I’m going for a walk … I need to clear my head.”
“Of course,” she said, watching her longtime confidant leave. Part of her wanted to join him, but she could not afford herself such a luxury. Dr. Peter Roberts was their chief scientist, with a specialty in genetics. Apart from the Council, he would be the most scientifically informed person she could turn to.
Chapter 6
“Freda, what’s the problem?” said Dr. Peter Roberts, walking into her office. The door closed behind him.
She tried to smile, but it was no use. Peter was only in his late thirties, having quickly propelled to the top of his field by releasing a groundbreaking paper concerning the human gene pool. It was a cruel irony that the most controversial paper of his career was to be proven correct. He argued the human gene pool was going through a rapid period of change in response to environmental factors. Things were simply “too easy” now. He had even argued brain capacity would decrease in the next thousand years due to the reliance on computers, from basic calculators to super-robotics, to perform daily tasks. In essence, less was being expected of the average person, both physically and mentally, than at any other point in human development.
“This doesn’t sound good,” said Peter. Those who worked with Freda knew her to be happy and bubbly.
“I hear the conference was a disaster?”
“It was,” he admitted. “Bloody terrorists. We’ve increased security for my family in light of the bombing. I’d rather not take any chances.”
“Of course not,” she agreed. “Use whatever resources you need to.”
Freda slipped back into silence, and Peter was getting more nervous by the second.
“What are your thoughts on selective breeding?” she said, finally.
“My personal thoughts, or what the evidence backs up?” he asked.
“Both.”
He took a seat.
“We’re top-heavy at the moment with mutated genes, and we aren’t evolving, that’s for sure. Advancements in technology softened the hardness of the gene question for a long time until the 2020s. Selective breeding would allow us not only to put the brakes on genetic mutations but fire them into reverse. We could clean the pool out.”
“You’re in favor of it then?” asked Freda.
“As a person, an uncle, and a brother, I can’t agree with it at all. It’s just not human to think in such ways. We are at a critical point in our development, but as we have shown time and time again, when our back is to the wall, humanity is at its ultimate best.”
“You don’t act until the last moment, you mean.”
“Like most civilizations. The human species is dying. No scientist could argue otherwise. What we’re all arguing about is the best way to combat it,” said Peter.
“So you’re in favor of
something
being done?” asked Freda.
“We don’t really have the scientific knowledge at the moment to engage in large-scale programs to correct genetic defects. The only tools available to us that would be effective are also political suicide.”
“You mean birth control.”
“Yes,” replied Peter. “Or, as you once said, breeding licenses. Essentially, that’s the only effective way to deal with this crisis. Governments have conducted studies into how … limiting those … not suitable for procreation would impact the gene pool. Physical and mental handicaps are increasing each year, along with a litany of other ailments, all because of a clogged-up gene pool. But the science community is more media-conscious than ever. The thought of ‘picking’ or ‘bullying’ the disabled, or the stupid and weak, would be tantamount to career suicide. Even if that wasn’t the case, it would take a politician of cast-iron courage to consider such a program. It’ll never happen. Not in our lifetime anyway.”
“It might happen sooner than you think,” she finally said.
“What?”
“The Council,” she began, standing up, “has decided, in its infinite wisdom, that action must be taken now and not in the future. They’re planning a full intervention to correct the situation. They fear extinction of the human species if they don’t act.”
“What kind of intervention?” he asked, watching her closely as she turned her back on him.
“Total,” she said.
“What’s total?”
“Sterilizing over ninety-nine percent of the population.”
“You mean create a super race,” snapped Peter. “That’s been tried before, Freda, and with disastrous consequences. It’s preposterous.”
Freda turned around, watching the blood rush to his face. “I’ve told the Council this is wrong. They are stamping on the fundamental rights of individual people, for the needs of the future. We should all cower when mathematical sums take the place of ethics.”
“What’re we going to do?” said Roberts.
“I will try my best to stop this and have Section 51 take responsibility for the issue, but it may very well be out of my control.”
“I beg your pardon?” he said, voice rising further.
“Peter, if there was anything I could do, I would. Technically the United States President has to authorize it, but the Council will override that requirement if necessary. They plan to begin sterilization within seven days.”
“This time next week, humanity will end.” Roberts paused, then frowned. “It’s not like you to be so defeatist.”
“The Council has the backing of the founding members and the Supreme Court. That leaves me with few options. I will personally convey my concerns to my own race’s leader, but that won’t change anything. I don’t agree with the Council’s decision,” she added, “but it is not within my power to overrule them.”
“Then the people have a right to know.”
“That can’t happen,” said Freda. The intensity of the situation was finally cracking her calm exterior. “We can’t afford a planet-wide panic. Be serious.”
“But we
can
afford a planet-wide sterilization?” he asked, trying to keep calm.
Freda sat back down, swiveling around in her chair to look out to the generated window imagery. Her mind was full of protocols, rules, and regulations. She knew the problem. Unlike her counterparts, she had grown accustomed to living on Earth. She had allowed herself to become attached to those she was to guide. A fatal error.
“Peter, I know this—”
“I don’t think you do, Freda. This will bring down government, and I don’t mean the current administration. Government as we know it will fall, across the planet. The human race will never abide an outside force deciding the fate of their children. They may end our way of life altogether, and your Council will succeed in sending us back to the Stone Age.”
“That is an exaggeration.”
“Oh it isn’t. Human nature is a very fickle thing. Those who can procreate will become targets by those who can’t. Violence, kidnapping, a black market selling babies.”
“A black market selling infants?”
“You better believe it,” reaffirmed Peter. “These markets already exist today, and even before the planet was in dire straits. Freda, humans want to be parents. It’s who we are.”
“Regardless of how you or I feel at the moment, the decision stands,” said Freda finally, after a few moments. “Could you prepare a study on the effects of sterilization on the groups in society who will be most affected?”
Peter looked about to say something and then stopped. Finally, he replied, “Understood, ma’am,” formalizing the end of their conversation before walking out without another word. Hearing the door slam shut hurt Freda. Their opinion of her was important. This feeling of letting them down, of betraying them, was terrifying, but what was she really to do? Impossible was a word she found humans used far too often, but in this case it was very accurate. There was no way she could overrule the Council or stop them from enacting this procedure. What she could do was be there afterwards, to help them mend and move forward.