Page 2 of Perfection
Daylight had broken, but from where they stood, skyscrapers hid the sun. This early in the morning, the city still slept. In an hour or so, the streets and walkways would be bustling with people. For an instant, he was aware of the changing of the guard, so to speak. The hum of huge air purification filters on the nearby corner ceased. Chicago sat silent, expectant. He breathed in a whiff of smog-free air. This quiet moment rang false. Every part of him knew it.
His air-car pulled up to the curb, and they got in. He adjusted the thrusters for vertical ascent and launched. Memos flashed over a nucleus screen set in the console, and his onboard computer kept up a running monologue of information and updates as he drove. The female voice sounded cool and collected. Three notices indicated other units had arrived at the Gastion residence by the time he’d piloted from midtown to the swanky Chicago suburb on the lake.
He gripped the steering wheel. Had the child died of natural causes—which seemed impossible unless there’d been some sort of accident—or was someone targeting the father and the kid got in the way? The WHO’s regional director held jurisdiction over the Committee and its genetic selections, oversaw universal health emergencies, monitored the impact of climate and environmental change, and advocated for the Coder population. Dealing with those issues placed Fredrick B-Gastion in direct conflict with a lot of people. Was someone upset about a decision coming down? Were they angry enough to retaliate?
* * *
“Hand it over, ladybug,” Kindra B-Zaika said with a gentle tone meant to coax her child.
“No.” Brianna stomped her foot and threw her head back defiantly.
Stunned by her daughter’s uncharacteristic explosive outburst, she inhaled a calming breath.
“I want it to opennoooow,” Brianna wailed, drawing the final word into a quivering, nerve-scraping bleat.
Kindra touched cool fingers to her brow and glanced out the panel of windows in the living room to discover dawn tiptoeing over the city. A streak of air traffic blazed in the distance, weaving between skyscrapers. People were on the move. But here she was, stonewalled by a two-year-old. She couldn’t leave for work with Brianna so upset.
Her daughter held out the potted sunflower in her small hands. Her eyes glistened as blue irises disappeared into rich-brown outer rims—a telltale sign of how upset she was.
“The flower has a growth cycle. It’s not time for it to bloom,” Kindra explained.
Brianna thrust out her lower lip, then pitched the uncooperative plant to the floor. Kindra sighed, struggling for calm as she watched the melodrama of flailing arms and legs that followed. She’d never encountered such an outburst, so she wasn’t sure how to deal with it. What was happening to her sweet little girl? Such out-of-control behavior was a first. In fact, D Generation was bred for an even temperament.
Worried, Kindra folded her hands and touched a knuckle to her lips. She was reluctant to play the waiting game, but what else could she do? She tried to think of solutions, from sending Brianna to her room to making her clean up the mess to scolding her. But she was only two. Would any of that really work?
It’ll pass.
Kindra had a gazillion things on her overloaded agenda. Just the thought of presenting her controversial report to the Genetics Committee first thing when she got to the office made her shudder. Nausea roiled in her stomach. The Committee had gotten carried away with power lately, and didn’t like to be challenged. She needed quiet. She needed solitude. She needed to rehearse her pitch.
“Fifteen minutes,” Nanny Sally advised as she entered the room.
“Yes, I know,” Kindra said as the popular model of android began to tick off five-minute increments in an effort to get Kindra to work on time. Fooltar. She could do without the nanny’s annoying programming this morning.
Near the electric-blue sofa, Kindra knelt beside her daughter. A thrashing foot clipped her shin, snagging her leggings. She winced, then stroked Brianna’s forehead.Be calm, please.
Brianna stilled at her mother’s touch and turned big, watery eyes up to look at Kindra. “Ladybug, you can’tmakethe flower bloom just because you want it to.”
With several hiccups, Brianna made an effort to control her crying.
Kindra collected the pot, replaced a handful of spilled soil, and set it upright on the floor. She settled cross-legged next to the plant and spied the gel book on the end table. Perhaps a pretend flower would do in the interim. She extended her hand, concentrated, and summoned Brianna’s holographic computer to her hand with a flare of psychokinesis.
Brianna stilled and peered at her mother. She sniffed back tears with sudden interest.
Kindra smothered a thankful sigh. Distraction. Perfect. She skipped her fingers over the gel book, bringing to life the electronic images until she accessed the file she wanted. “What color would you like your flower to be?”
“Yellow. Intense yellow.”
Intense, of course—Brianna’s word of the week. Last week it wasactivate. A rush of pride swelled inside Kindra at her daughter’s advanced intelligence. All children of D Generation were geniuses, as mandated by the Committee. They would be attending university at age nine.
She sighed.Such potential.
These kids were far beyond what she had been as a child, more intelligent, more intuitive, more talented. Even though Kindra graduated high school at thirteen, university at seventeen and worked alongside her father learning the ins and outs of genetics, she wondered if she even had a hope of keeping up when the Ds grew into adults.
With another swirl of a finger, a vibrant sunflower popped up from the page. Kindra carefully detached the 3D creation, separating it from the book. “This will have to do until I get home this evening.”
“But it’s May Day. I wanted to give you arealflower.”
Downy, soul-deep warmth caressed Kindra. “I appreciate that. But some things can’t be rushed.” She smiled. The urge to stay home from work tempted her. “Come here.” She patted her leg, inviting Brianna to sit on her lap.
