Page 53 of Perfection

Jeff Stowe positioned a greeting table inside the entrance door. “I’ve called in all the staff, but with this many… I’ll show you what to do. You can help them get prepared for the children.”

York was thrust back to when his son was ill and six years of heartache took over. What had he been thinking when he’d agreed to help get this operation going? “Wait a minute. I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can. It’s not difficult,” Stowe said. He went down a checklist, explaining how to settle the kids into the pods.

The door opened, and two technicians joined them. The rumbling voices of adults and children drifted in from outside as robots traversed the halls.

A young woman with light-brown hair popped her head into the room. “Our first clients have arrived.”

A number of fair-haired children, their eyes round with uncertainty, entered with their parents in an orderly fashion.

Cal tipped his body toward York, saying in a low voice, “I hope this goes over well. The facility usually services Coders.”

“They have no other choice.” York hadn’t really considered the complicated cultural issues. He wondered if Kindra had. He watched the parents and took in their strained expressions. Were they worried about what their children were going to go through or about the Coder environment?

It seemed ironic that the proverbial shoe was on the other foot. But to York, it didn’t matter. All children should be valued and precious. It was the adult GEIs he had issues with.

“Move to a cryo pod and fill out the information on the corresponding spot computer,” Stowe instructed.

York approached the first family in line. The little girl looked so much like Isabelle. He knelt down to her height. “You’re lucky. You get to choose your pod. Which one would you like?”

“I want my own bed at home,” she said, squeezing her mother’s hand.

“I know you do, but this is only for a short time,” York said.

“Mommy, something smells funny,” the girl said. “And my tummy hurts.”

The mother turned her eyes to York. “Is a stomach problem a symptom?”

“I don’t really know, but she’s probably nervous.” To the child, he said, “And that’s what this nap is going to fix.” York gave the little girl and her mom what he hoped was a supportive look. “You can tuck her in and tell her a story or sing to her, whatever your usual routine is.”

The mom held tight to the child’s hand, the reluctance to let go obvious in her eyes.

He drew in a huge breath. He totally understood her unease.

The cavernous room filled with the sound of high-pitched children’s voices, all around the age of two, and the parents’ controlled, sensible encouragement. To his surprise, there were very few tears, as logic seemed to prevail. While the parents tried to hold their emotions in check, he could see the panic in their eyes. It reminded him of his original opinion of most GEIs. It reminded him of how deeply broken and helpless he’d felt when Danny had fallen ill.

In the row across the aisle, Cal went through the same routine with a little boy.

He reached up for York’s brother to lift him into the bed, brave and anxious for the new adventure. “It’s like going on a space journey,” the boy said.

“You’re right. They use cryogenics for space travel.” Cal’s voice was calm.

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” the boy’s father said, adjusting the pillow beneath his son’s head.

Once each child was settled, a technician came and placed a medicated microdot laced with a sedative on his or her neck. Very soon, the child was asleep. Next, the intravenous tubes were established, and then the domed glass shield tracked closed with an unnerving whispered whoosh, sealing the child in.

York saw the process, again and again, all along thinking the parents had it too together, were too trusting, too confident of the outcome. Just watching it all tore up his gut.

He checked his Flex for the time. Five in the evening and his spine and shoulders were as tight as if they’d been doing this for three days instead of three hours. He was about to relinquish the duty to someone else when he turned to the cryo unit nearest to him. The bed was closed and already in use. His gaze passed over it, noting a child with dark, silky hair and a pale complexion inside. He did a double take.

No. It couldn’t be.

He placed both palms on the glass and leaned in closer. The boy’s eyes were closed, but York recognized his son’s features even in sleep. Even after six long years. Even though there was no reasonable explanation of why he would be here and not in the burial complex York had selected.

His knees grew weak and his chest compressed. He felt like he’d been hit by a truck. He struggled to draw his next breath. Thank God he had hold of the bed.

His brain kicked into gear and his hands trembled. He longed to open the case, to reach in and cradle Danny. What he wouldn’t give to touch, to kiss, to smell his child once again. His stomach lurched.