No one will grant us deliverance –
Not God, nor king, nor hero.
We will achieve liberation
With our very own hand!
The Internationale, Eugène Pottier, 1871
Prologue
Directive Named for Marco Tadić
No. 188-66/KS-21.07.37
Dated 21 July, Year 37 Nova Prima Era[1]
Preamble
Whereas Article 1 of the Convention states that all human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights, and Article 2 states that every human life is sacred and inviolable from the moment of conception, and Article 3 prohibits the use of cybernetic and mechanical devices implanted in the human body, the Continental Council has deemed it necessary to enact this Directive to regulate the issue of providing assistance to children for whom a risk of developing severe pathologies has been identified at any stage of embryonic development.
/.../
Chapter 1. General Provisions
Pursuant to Article 2 of the Convention[2], which states that every human life is sacred and inviolable from the moment of conception, the member states of the Continental Union[3] that have ratified the Convention have enacted corresponding amendments to their legal acts, prohibiting abortions and the arbitrary disposal of the lives of unborn humans by parents.
Pursuant to Article 4 of the Convention, which prohibits experiments and trials on human beings in any form, as well as alterations to human nature, the member states of the Continental Union that have ratified the Convention prohibit any experiments or trials on humans at any age or condition, as well as alterations to the human genome. Voluntary consent for such actions is not permitted.
Abortions are prohibited in all countries of Ayala and its colonies; in cases of a threat to the mother's life, fetal transfer to a Mitra-Cube[4] is utilized.
/.../
1.7. However, for humanitarian reasons, in cases of diagnosed severe pathologies at any stage of embryonic development, parents have the right to appeal to this Directive.
Chapter 2. Subject of the Directive
2.1. This Directive establishes that in cases of identified severe pathologies listed in Appendix 1.1, parents have the right to resort to corrective genetic and biotechnologies listed in Appendix 1.2.
2.2. However, based on the fundamental Articles 2 and 4 of the Convention for all member states of the Continental Union, this is permissible only if the parents sign an informed consent form (see Appendix 3.1.) and a declaration of renunciation of "human" status for their unborn child (see Appendix 3.2.).
2.3. After signing the informed consent and the declaration of renunciation of "human" status, the child's status is changed to "physically living sentient being," which is confirmed by a Certificate of the established form (see Appendix 5.1.).
/.../
2.7. Corrective procedures for an embryo with identified severe pathologies are performed free of charge after the parents receive the Certificate.
/.../
2.15. The Certificate is issued prior to birth and is valid for life.
2.16. The Certificate cannot be revoked or exchanged for a human passport.
Chapter 4. Corrective Procedures
4.1. All corrective procedures are to be carried out exclusively by genetic or biotechnological means, in order to prevent a recurrence of the Catastrophe of Year 36 NPrE.
/.../
4.8. All beings are to be sterilized as part of the exclusion of potential risks from the genetic structure of humanity.
/.../
Chapter 5. Guarantees of Life and Activity for Physically Living Sentient Beings
5.1. Every being, following successfully performed corrective procedures, is placed at the disposal of the Corporation, which is obligated to guarantee its life support, education, and subsequent utilization at its own discretion. However, the being may not be separated from its family until it reaches the age of 14.
5.2. The condition for the being's return to the family after corrective procedures is the parents' signing of a contract outlining the terms for implementing clause 5.1. (see Appendix 7.1).
/.../
5.22. After fulfilling all obligations to the Corporation, the being has the right to manage its life at its own discretion within the framework of this Directive.
Nobility and baseness, courage and fear –
All are imprinted in our bodies from birth.
We will not become better or worse until death –
We are as Allah created us!
Omar Khayyam
Phantom Freedom
"Millions of victims – that is what the era of cybernetic prostheses and mechanoids ended with for us. Our goal is to prevent a repeat of the tragedy of the Year 36, and for that, we are working tirelessly on the development of biotechnology."
From a speech by Niccolia Tadić, head of the MT Corporation, to the Continental Council
Year 36 NPrE
Chapter 1
June 14, Year 214 NPrE
Almonzeia, the capital of the MT Corporation's colonies on Almonzis
The nearest flower shop to the depot was closed. Axel Fontaine looked with annoyance at the panel where, amidst intricate patterns, the message "Blooming for you from 10 to 23 on weekdays and holidays!" flickered. Below it, a timer shimmered with all the colours of the rainbow, counting down to the opening, and below that, a guilty glow announced: "We apologize for the delivery delay."
Ax retrieved a pocket watch from his vest pocket, clicked open the lid, and held it up to the panel. When it synchronized with the timer, the display spat out a shower of colourful petals that swirled into an elaborate signature: "See you soon for flowers!" Fontaine put the watch away and looked around for a café or bar to shelter from the scorching sun. During the voyage, he'd gotten unused to weather not being regulated by climate control, and it was starting to get too warm in his three-piece suit.
A girl with a basket of flowers approached the empty shop window, and Ax waved at her hopefully. But the girl, barely seeing the early customer, flinched, recoiled, and hurriedly activated the window tinting. Fontaine sighed — but took no offence: over forty-five years, he'd grown accustomed to people giving him a wide berth upon meeting, and the more impressionable ones — jumping back.
DNA recombination had endowed him not only with heterochromia (one eye was bright blue, the other dark brown) but also with the build of a gorilla at a height of over two meters. Ax's face consisted of a massive, heavy jaw, cheekbones resembling cake spatulas, a large nose, and bushy eyebrows overhanging deep-set eyes. Shaggy black hair gave him a certain charm, and since Axel couldn't decide whether he looked scarier with a beard than without, he'd shaved it off along with his moustache that morning. Judging by the reaction of his colleagues and the girl in the shop — in vain.
Ax moved to the shaded side of the street and trudged along the dark shopfronts, dreaming of a large glass of iced coffee. Of course, the body of a former stream-trooper would soon adapt to the heat, though it didn't happen as quickly as before, and his eyes took longer to get used to the bright sun than ten years ago, hmm...
"Getting old," he sighed.
The street was empty — city life started well by eleven o'clock at the earliest, and Ax felt a slight envy for the local layabouts. The Express woke up at six a.m. even in the depot; Fontaine had already dealt with a pile of tasks and carved out a couple of hours to stretch his legs and, incidentally, buy a bouquet for the Express chief's anniversary. Although he knew nothing about flowers, and why the hell Claude had decided to put him in charge of it... though she had given him clear instructions. Ax loved instructions — life with them was simple and clear.
"White and light blue fluffy flowers, fifty-five pieces," Claude had sternly instructed him. "Roses, peonies, camellias, araphins. If you don't know what they are — ask the seller, they'll show you."
An untinted window gleamed up ahead, and Fontaine perked up cheerfully. Maybe he'd get not only the iced coffee vitally necessary on hot Almonzean mornings but also some eggs and a bit of bacon?
Alas, decent establishments weren't open at such an ungodly early hour (half past ten!), so the only food Fontaine found at the "Ocean" café-bar were beer snacks and pastries for coffee. Neither looked particularly inspiring, so Ax settled for iced coffee. The days when he could devour anything not in the final stages of decomposition were long gone. After all, once he sorted out the bouquet, he'd return to the Express, where István would prepare baked potato cutlets with mushrooms in garlic sauce and beef slices for the afternoon snack.
To pass the time, Fontaine began observing the people in the café. There were three. The first — the bartender, whose hand trembled slightly as he served Ax a half-litre glass of coffee. The second — a gentleman in a white suit, sipping tea while scrolling through a newspaper on a large tablet. And the third — a lanky guy in his early twenties. He sat at the far end of the bar, hunched over a tablet with a keyboard, and the moment Fontaine entered the café, he stared at him as if he were a museum exhibit.
Ax was used to being stared at, so he chose the sturdiest-looking stool, carefully sat down to avoid breaking it, and only then measured the young man with a return glance from under his bushy brows. The youth fidgeted nervously on his barstool but didn't look away. Axel gave a benevolent smile. He liked it when people weren't afraid of him. For instance, Claude, the Express dispatcher, felt no fear of him whatsoever, which was why Fontaine hadn't argued when she ordered him to buy the bouquet, even though it wasn't exactly the Security Chief's usual responsibility.
"Fifty-five roses, peonies, camellias, and araphins, hmm. That's for the number of years, I get it, but why specifically white and light blue?"
The bartender clicked a button on the remote, and instead of pleasant, soft music, the café was filled with a piercing female voice with hysterical notes:
"...if you donate for the treatment of our little one, then God will bless you!"
Axel looked at the screen above the bar. A morning talk show was on — in the middle of a white studio, a woman worn down by life sat frozen tensely in a huge white armchair. She wore dark, worn-out clothes, her hair escaping from under a headscarf, her hands clutching a rosary convulsively, and a tattered Holy Scripture on her lap. A real book, would you look at that. A small fortune if sold.
"Fucking nutcase," said the bartender and stared at the woman with interest, as if at a curious beast in a cage. An elegant hostess appeared on screen and inquired insinuatingly:
"But you understand, Kim, that this was precisely the result of your decision, don't you?"
"If our little one was born this way, then it's God's will!" declared the woman, and the bartender burst into merry laughter.
"Disgusting," remarked the gentleman in the white suit. "The mentally ill should be treated, not allowed to breed so they can later... Good Lord!"
A photo of a premature baby appeared on the screen.
"Chase-McCormack," thought Ax: a syndrome causing the fetus's lungs and heart to stop developing. Even if it somehow miraculously manages to last nine months and survive birth, then...
"Ugh, what a vile thing," said the bartender, but didn't switch it off, looking at the shriveled little body entangled in tubes and sensors with disgust and curiosity.
"Kim," — the hostess's voice mixed sympathy and condemnation in carefully measured proportions — "you found out about this in the first weeks. Why didn't you appeal to the Directive?"
"It contradicts God's plan," cut off the mother of the child who, by Ax's estimate, would be in the grave in about three months. "Besides, every child of a man and a woman is a human child, and who are we to renounce what is established by the Lord?"
"So, from your point of view, the Lord established that your child should suffer and die after months of agonizing therapy?"
"If good people donate just a little for us, our Betsy will get new lungs and a little heart..."
"Cultivated lungs and a heart," the hostess gently interrupted, "created not by God, but in laboratories, from your daughter's DNA material. Doesn't that disturb you?"
Kim bit her lip and after a long pause muttered:
"We are waiting for donor organs."
"So you reject DNA synths, but agree that someone should die for your daughter?"
"Won't make it," murmured Fontaine, bringing the coffee to his lips. The gentleman in white turned to him:
"You think so?"
"Even with transplanted organs, with Chase-McCormack syndrome, the brain's blood circulation is so impaired that the child will remain disabled," a sharp voice came from the other end of the bar. Ax looked at the expert with interest. The same guy who had been staring at him — and now Fontaine examined him more closely. A tall, blue-eyed blonde in an expensive, custom-tailored suit and bright red Steimar boots. Next to his tablet lay a brand-new Frank Ellman hat — probably the bartender's entire monthly salary.
"High society cream," Ax snorted. He had a whole train of those. Also quick to opine on things they usually know nothing about.
"She's lying," said Fontaine.
"Who?" the gentleman in white was surprised.
"The hostess. No one will die for that freak. Donor organs go to Vitri-storages after the testator's death. But there's no chance anyway."
"Why?" the bartender asked curiously, turning down the volume.
"Because it's not guaranteed that the storage will have lungs and a heart from such a young donor. She can't be given adult organs, and organs from newborns almost never end up in storage."
"That's exactly why I say such lunatics should be forcibly sterilized, just like beings!" the gentleman in white exclaimed energetically. "If a mentally normal mother were in her place, she would have used the Directive, and now her little one would already be cooing and shaking rattles in a playpen!"
"And you would have missed an interesting spectacle early in the morning," the blonde guy remarked sarcastically. "Well, and the MT Corporation would have acquired a nice new being."
"But the child would be alive and healthy! I wouldn't hesitate for a minute!"
"Do you have such experience?" Fontaine inquired, and the gentleman in white faltered somewhat:
"Thank God, no. But I'm talking about the principle!"
"The principle," Fontaine repeated. "So that's what it is."
"It's high time the Directive was made compulsory! Then all these poor things..."
"Would become a bunch of lab rats for MT," the blonde interrupted him. "The board of directors would wet themselves with joy, the whole lot!"
"And you prefer children to suffer?"
"They all suffer because of legal red tape," the guy declared, "these children, and beings, and parents. None of this would have happened if two hundred years ago the old farts..."
"Are you an anti-Conventionalist?" the gentleman in white asked suspiciously. Fontaine quietly snorted. It wasn't the first time he'd seen dolled-up rich kids fervently discussing the common good. Ax shifted his gaze to the badge on the jacket lapel and read: "Theodore Edward Ross, 'The Liberty Standard'."
"Journalist," Ax thought with contempt. Packs of these useless creatures eagerly besieged his Express, especially if some screen star bought a ticket. Interesting, do article fees cover Steimar boots, or does daddy chip in for pocket money?
Fontaine's watch beeped, suggesting the flower shop was about to open. Ax paid for the coffee and headed for the door, carefully maneuvering around the furniture. The studio audience was fiercely pecking at the woman with the rosary, and Ax even felt a little sorry for her, though he could never understand religious folk.
Everyone has the right to their principles and the right to defend them, but not at the expense of a child who was unlucky in the genetic lottery! In the nearly two centuries of the Directive's existence, millions of children had successfully undergone recombination — and Axel himself felt quite content as a being. All that was left was to solve the bouquet problem and return to the Express, to the cozy, and most importantly — cool — atmosphere of climate control.
***
The girl carefully packed the bouquet into a darkened, cooling cone so that the exquisite composition in white and light blue tones would survive the journey to the depot. Axel left the shop noticeably poorer by a tidy sum and walked slowly down the street, baked white-hot by the sun. The bouquet mission was complete, and only one task remained that Ax wanted to finish before returning to the Express.
Finally, he saw what he was looking for — a small dead-end alley between two shops. Fontaine stood for a moment, listening, and ducked into the cul-de-sac. There, he placed the cone with the bouquet on the ground, waited for a shadow to flicker behind his back, and, spinning around sharply, grabbed his pursuer by the throat.
"Pssssst..." the victim wheezed, legs pedaling half a meter off the ground.
"What the hell for?" Fontaine asked sternly. The journalist kicked desperately in his grip, quickly turning crimson. Axel loosened his fingers, and Theodore E. Ross flopped onto his knees.
"Why are you following me?"
"Interview," the press representative hissed impudently, coughing convulsively. "Will you give me an interview?"
"No. I don't discuss my passengers."
"I don't give a damn about your passengers," the pup declared unexpectedly. "My God, why choke me right away? I didn't even get to ask anything..."
"Why wait until you do?"
The journalist swallowed and scooted further away from Ax, just in case. Fontaine peered more closely at the blond face. At first, he thought the pup was barely twenty, but now he figured he was older, just seemed like a recent schoolboy due to his fine features and smoothness. Or maybe it was the expression...
"Why do you want to talk to me?"
"Did you fall off a tree yesterday? You saw what's happening yourself!"
"Where?"
"On the show! It's the Weisberg case, front-page sensation," Ross shoved his hand into a flat bag, and Fontaine placed his palm on his service revolver, which he never parted with. But the pup merely pulled out a tablet, scrolled through something, and showed Ax a newspaper page with a huge headline: "Yes or No: Will the Weisberg Case End the Right to Refuse the Directive?"
"And what does that have to do with me?"
"But you're a being! You must have something to say!"
"No. I've never had donor organs transplanted; everything heals on its own on me."
"What do donors have to do with it! This whole uproar is about the right to refuse correction! And you're discriminated against too, you also suffered..."
"Me?" Ax asked in surprise. "Why?"
"Ah, so you're one of those slaves who are content with their slavery[5]?" the journalist latched on immediately. "They even brand you like animals — and you think that's normal?"
Fontaine studied the impudent creature for a few seconds, until said creature scooted even further away and paled, his back hitting the house wall. Ax stepped closer (Ross let out a frightened gasp), leaned down, and said softly:
"Imagine how awkward you'll feel if I take off my shirt now and there's no brand on my shoulder?"
"B-but... you are a being..."
"And are you so sure that beings are easily recognizable at first glance? Then how are you different from, hmm, other discriminators?"
Ross licked his lips and quickly looked around for escape routes. Fontaine dropped a hand on his shoulder and pressed him lightly against the wall — carefully, so as not to break anything in the skinny frame.
"Let me go!" the equality fighter yelped. "I'll report you to the police for assault!"
"I'll report you," Ax said amiably, "for stalking."
"I wasn't stalking!.."
"Six cameras on the street."
"Huh?"
"Six surveillance cameras recorded you following me from the café, staking out the flower shop, and tailing me again."
"How do you know!"
"I counted."
The journalist already looked pitiful enough, and Axel decided that was sufficient pedagogical effort for the day, but then Ross blurted out:
"If you're not a being, then how do you know about Chase-McCormack syndrome?"
"I can read, just like you. We are, you know, allowed to study in schools."
"Ah, so you admit it? That you're a being?" the journalist rejoiced. Ax sighed and muttered:
"Some people are just stupid."
He often remembered the tone Phan Thi Linh used when saying that, constantly pestered by the most feeble-minded representatives of humanity about what it was like to live with a synthetic brain.
"So, about the interview?" a voice recorder suddenly appeared in front of Ax's nose. "Five minutes — and your opinion will be on the front page!"
The phone in his jacket pocket buzzed, and Fontaine covered the journalist's mouth with his hand. Ignoring Ross's convulsive struggle for freedom of speech, he touched his earpiece and said:
"Yes?"
"Axel," Frina's voice came through, "Ferenc was hit by a car. He's in the ICU at the fourteenth hospital."
***
Frina Akinola, the Express's chief physician, stood at the observation window in a white coat over a beach dress, watching the progress of the surgery, occasionally glancing at the tablet with Ferenc's vital signs. Her smooth black hair was pulled into a ponytail, she wore beach sandals on her feet, and on her dark coffee-colored skin — specks of sand were still visible.
"How is he?" asked Fontaine.
"Not bad, considering the initial condition. He'll survive and bake cakes again, if that's what you're asking. But not right away."
A device in the operating room beeped, and Ax involuntarily leaned forward.
"He'll be fine," Frina murmured, moving a stylus across the screen, "don't worry. The surgery is proceeding normally."
"Maybe transfer him to us? Or to a better hospital?"
"Not advisable. I've already spoken with the colleagues here. They're good doctors, sufficiently qualified."
It was unlikely these local horse doctors had ever seen a doctor like Frina in their lives, and Ax would have preferred her to be in the operating room over Ferenc. But that would probably be a blatant violation of their medical ethics or one hundred and fifty points of some idiotic regulations.
"Couldn't you have..."
"I wouldn't have gotten into the OR, Axel," the chief physician said softly. "He needed immediate surgery, no time to waste, and I only arrived ten minutes after he was brought in. But they're doing everything right. Do you trust me?"
"Of course," said Fontaine. The bouquet cone, absurd in the middle of the hospital corridor, was cooling his hand, and Ax set it on the floor.
"And I'm not going to burst into their OR waving my diplomas, no matter how much you'd like me to," Dr. Akinola looked at the tablet screen again. "Please, don't blame yourself for this. You're not responsible for our safety outside the depot."
The devices Ferenc was connected to buzzed incessantly, blinked, beeped, and it stirred a vague anxiety in Ax. Frina frowned slightly, her thin brows tracking the fluctuations of Ferenc's heartbeat.
"I'll contact his family, but Eliza will certainly want to hear the details from you. When are you returning to the train?"
"I think by evening. The colleagues allowed me to personally observe his condition."
"As if they'd try not to," Fontaine grumbled. These colleagues ought to kiss the floor she walks on, or better yet — let her into the operating room so that... oh, alright. If things were really bad, Frina would already be in there.
"Axel, everything is going normally. Stop developing a squint and staring at the tablet."
Frina was very tall, and sneaking a peek at the tablet over her head wasn't very convenient, so Ax sighed, resigned, and left everything to the professional.
"Have you told Madame?"
"No. Didn't have time."
"I see. I'll report it myself. But how did it happen?"
"From what I gathered from the nurse's words, a car suddenly hit Ferenc. Literally smeared him across the road, even though the pedestrian light was green."
Fontaine frowned. So, someone was behind the wheel — autopilots don't break rules.
"And how did the driver explain it?"
"Didn't. Fled the scene."
"And the police couldn't catch him?"
"I don't know. Judging by Ferenc's condition, the driver was trying to reach supersonic speed. So they might not have caught up."
"Interesting," Ax thought with surprise. You'd have to be flying to leave even police racers far behind. But why didn't they track him by tracker?
"Axel, he won't be able to make the voyage," said Dr. Akinola. "Even if he wakes up tomorrow, which is extremely unlikely, rehabilitation will take at least a month. And I'd recommend rest and complete peace for at least two."
"Ferenc will be damned upset. He really loves this route."
"Can't be helped. Will you tell the head chef yourself? I can take care of it."
"No, thank you. Better keep an eye on Ferenc. I'll return to the Express, report to Madame, and talk to the head chef."
"I'll text you when the surgery is over."
Ax picked up the bouquet and headed for the elevator, gloomily pondering how the head of the restaurant car would manage to find candidates for the head pastry chef position, and how he would have time to vet them all according to the Security Service (SS) protocol two weeks before the voyage's departure.
[1] The new calendar era is counted from the year when Marco Tadić first successfully launched a train into a stream-tunnel, thereby opening the era of the exploration of the Cradle Galaxy; or more precisely, from the date when the crew of the first stream-train, Arabella, made the first landing in human history on a planet of another star system.
[2] The Continental Convention is the unified fundamental code of laws adopted by almost all states of Ayala, i.e., the states that formed the Continental Union, governed by a single body — the Senate (while these states retain their own governments).
[3] The Continental Council is the legislative body under the Senate.
[4] An artificial womb.
[5] In accordance with Chapter 3 of the Directive, beings are subject to a number of legal restrictions:
"3.4.1. Limited political capacity – beings are prohibited from both voting and standing for election;
3.4.2. Prohibition on entering into marriage, the status of which is defined by Article 17 of the Convention as a union of two adult human beings, entered into based on free choice, while of sound mind and memory. The status of a union between a human and a being, or between two beings, is defined as a social partnership.
3.4.3. Prohibition on the adoption of children by beings" — etc.