An Artificial Life

“Once upon a time there lived a young scientist who took a beautiful florist to be his wife. They were happy together for many years, and soon enough the wife bore a daughter. The daughter had bright blue eyes, and hair as black as ashes. She was a bright, cheery little thing, and her name was Rebecca. So proud were the new parents that they soon tried for another child, a sister for Rebecca to play and grow up with. But it was soon apparent this goal would never be reached. After a tumultuous period of battling cancer, the mother died. The scientist felt very melancholy during this stage, but after a while an idea occurred to him. He was a scientist in bioengineering after all. Why conceive a daughter when you can make one? Genius! But first he had to prepare his laboratory for the tremendous undertaking.

After careful planning and lawful consideration, the scientist had perfected the lower basement of his laboratory to house his creation. The walls were lined with row upon row of life support pods full to the brim with nutrient liquid, and the lights were a dim blue and darkened to a misty glow. The temperature was controlled by a series of air vents set at intervals in the floor. A large box-shaped machine connected itself to the pods, regulating the liquid so it was stable enough to sustain a growing clone. So sterile and eerie, yet so magnificent, it flashed and buzzed like it was alive. To the left of it, and in pride of place, was the colossal control panel that orchestrated it all.
 It had taken the scientist many months, and cost an inordinate sum of money to develop, but it was done. He felt stir in him a small sense of accomplishment as he looked down the narrow corridor in the middle of the room. He readied his equipment and took the helm as head of staff. Then the experiments began.

Days went by without knowledge in that dark space under the electric sun. The artificialness of it all reflected the growing fetuses in the pods perfectly. They wriggled, tiny fish-like beings with fused fingers, flipper-like toes and giant eyes. The scientist had chosen bulk instead of repetitive testing, to save losing everything on one specimen. All of them were experimental to see which, if any, would survive.  Some were made one way, the way of the old professionals that wrote the books on genetic cloning. The others were made another way, the scientist’s new and improved method focused on the DNA synthesis in the mitochondria. These new hybrid individuals flourished for a while in the wake of his breakthroughs, and withered away as a consequence of his mistakes. It was better off cloning the old way, because the clones were medically enhanced but their lifespan was drastically shortened. By the end of November he had only nine left. Nine perfect, flawless clones. They floated peacefully, almost communicating with one another, while they were developed still further with amino acid tweaking and nutrients.

For a while at least, the scientist was left to his own devices and his own boundaries. Rebecca was left constantly with a network of nannies throughout the day so he could focus all his energy into his creations, and no one questioned what he was doing or where he was doing it. Until a routine health and safety check changed everything. The inspectors were not meant to find his sanctuary, but evidently, due to a security breach and the clumsy words of his younger staff, they did. This was his first failure.

Suddenly there was media at the doorstep and flashing cameras at every turn. The nanny programme was constantly questioned, and poor Rebecca was poked and prodded to the point of tears. The scientist could handle that, keeping his daughter away from the public eye by taking her to work, but he could not stand the protests. It wasn’t fair to create life when there was life all around him. What he was doing was selfish. He was upsetting the balance of nature. It all drove him to brink of madness, so much so that he began to pack his things in order to move down with his clones. So inflamed was he that he left his laboratory unguarded, with chemicals scattered everywhere. The error would nearly cost him all he had worked for.

When he came back the place was in flames. His staff were running about frantically, the men distraught, the women hysterical. All he could think about though were his precious nine clones. He gave charge of Rebecca to a large group of supervisors, and then charged in through the double doors despite shouted advice. He coughed and spluttered, weaving through fog, but couldn’t see anything. He tripped over the trapdoor that led to his chamber of secrets, twisting his ankle. He seized the handle and pulled it with both hands and started down the ladder, wincing at each step. Once he got down there he realized his crusade was hopeless. Bits of glass were spread all over the floor, and the pods yawned empty like eggshells. The clones were bludgeoned beyond recognition, and their blood was splattered against the walls.

He stood in a pool of nutrition fluid in shock. All of his work had been destroyed, just because of the vanity that some people had. They didn’t understand, they couldn’t understand, they wouldn’t understand. His pain was twice doubled when he realized his ankle was throbbing. The whispers of his dead wife started up, an ironic twist. “Isn’t life wonderful? You can do it…” He held his head, waiting for them to cease, but they didn’t. He moved like a zombie in the devastation, coughing and moaning, looking for a way out. Something caught his eye. It was a sparkle, not unlike the reflection the sun makes when it hits glass. He dragged aside bits of metal. There, on its side but otherwise fine, was a pod. It was whole and unbroken, and he could vaguely see a little fish-creature inside. His heart leapt. One had survived! Amidst all the death and destruction, there was one still alive. He righted the pod and checked the connecting tube. It was unscathed, but that could not be said for the machine it was joined to. The scientist thought. The fetus could survive in stasis if the contraption malfunctioned, but only for a few days. He had to clean up, and he would clean up. This could still work!
      The change in him was remarkable. When his colleagues saw him emerge he was not the broken man they expected. Rebecca wasn’t fussed; all she wanted was her papa.  He gladly obliged, explaining everything. The experiment was not lost, it could still be continued! Gradually his staff had the same smiling faces, and some even clapped each other on the back and congratulated themselves.

They spent the next forty-eight hours refurbishing the room, neglecting the lab above ground so it would look derelict and add to camouflage. The fetus was reconnected to a repaired machine, and it wriggled and jiggled once more. Everything was set up around it, and everything was monitored to the letter to ensure its growth processes were comfortable. A twenty-four hour watch was posted; the lead scientist couldn’t take any chances. Rebecca was installed in a little office room where she was cared for by a staff rota. Every day the scientist watched the bubbles in the pod, waiting for them to get bigger.  All because one little being was found amidst the rubble of a ruined dream.

Two years later it was a slow day at the office, and the scientist was tired. He’d been playing with Rebecca, who insisted on having a horse to ride about, and the development of the fetus had slowed. He was pleased with its progress, but he was concerned also. Would it ever wake up? Would it be mentally deficient because of that accident two years ago? Would it be able to speak? He bit his nails, watching the pod with half-closed eyes. Please, he thought. Please wake up. He tapped his fingers against his side, staring at the steady stream of gurgling water. He was starting to lose hope. Then he saw the flickering. He held his breath…”


Maxwell closed the small, leather-bound book he’d been reading with a heavy sigh and leaned back on the truckle bed he was sitting on. He got a tug at the elbow for his trouble.
“Daddy, why did you stop reading Grandpa’s story you wrote?” A small quiet voice in his ear whispered. It belonged to the little girl tucked up in bed next to him. She had half opened eyes.
Maxwell bit his lip. He had his reasons, but he did not know how to put it in a context his daughter would understand.  So instead he smiled, pulled the covers up to her chin, leaned over, and gave her a kiss on the forehead.
“Because, Hayley, it’s time for you to go to sleep. You have school in the morning.”