My Notebook (:Mature

September 2011.

Amie's eyes sparkled.
'It's so close that I can taste it... it tastes dangerous.' Rachel gripped the edge of the desk, biology lesson forgotten.
'Because it's so attainable.' Amie's tone was matter-of-fact but the glint in her eyes remained. 'This isn't science we don't have. We'd breed as far as we could, then bring in external factors - genetically modify to perfection and then clone an endless supply.'
Rachel leant closer, breathing heavy with nervous exhileration. 'We could use neurosurgery to create a mock-up of the ideal brain. The DNA replication... it'd be like creating a HTML code. We could code it directly to embryos as well as clone!'
Amie looked thoughtful for a moment. 'We'd have to be careful about not getting caught.'
'How long did Hitler keep it quiet for? Besides, we'll both be highly qualified medics; we won't rely on other people. You're a political mistress, and we both know that it's all about ambigous language.'

A slow smile spread accross Amie's face.
'You're on.'
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May 2038.

'Too many years have passed without change; too many years have passed without any strength of promise and true will to change a government failing its people. I was just fifteen when I hoped to be the one that made that change. Today, that hope came to fruition, just as your hopes will under this new era. Truly, we will uphold the old setiment of "The People's Party", and together, we will make it a reality.'

The mass of people applauded outside Number Ten. A serene woman, only forty-two, joined in with vigour, staring at a face as old as her own: the face of the second female prime minister, of the youngest ever prime minister; the face of her old schoolmate, her unversirty flatmate, her dearest friend. The two women had graduated at twenty-two - a year early - from Oxford Medical College, becoming fully-fledged and well-respected truama surgeons at twenty-five, before deviating into their specialities - the new PM in haemotology and the other woman settling easily into neurosurgery. Both women had privately trained up in genetic sciences throughout their careers and had worked in developing genetic procedures - all on the quiet, of course. It was all part of a perfectly orchestrated, twenty-seven year-old plan.

Within three years, the first stage of the plan would commence.
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 January 2041.

It was a familiarly clinical cold in the lab. Dr. Rachel Elizabeth was washed as white as her workspace by the harsh flourescent lights, but she looked neither ill nor cold: the steel of a skilled prefessional was evident in her composure. A clearly flaccid male body was stretched on one table; another table held a myraid of biotechnical equipment, a tank holding an apparetly abnormal human brain, and three petri dishes. PM Dr. Amie Thackery shivered, breath rising in front of her face.
'It's hostile in here, how do you stand it?'
'I'm well accustomed to the environment. And I'm wearing thermals. I thought we'd start with just three, and see which ones work properly. The isolated DNA is under that slide,' (Rachel pointed to the other end of the table) 'And everything is ready to go. This is SCNT of course, I'm not sure if you've ever seen it before.'
'I am well accustomed to the process.'
'Quite.' The copper-haired woman flashed the prime minister a quick smile, reaching for a paper cap. 'Scrub, Amie, and then glove up. I may as well accept another pair of skilled hands.'

Both women moved swiftly, transferring the isolated DNA to the empty cells. It was a meticulous, delicate process, but both women were experienced and at ease with fine motor manipulation. They collected and transferred and bisected repeatedly, finally moving the new embyos to three excellently designed tanks meant to mimic a human womb (there were only three of these tanks in existence - the Jayne Vitrum-Ventres - and were designed by the two women).
'And now what?'
'Now we wait,' said Rachel pleasantly. 'I'll ask John to collect the waste later. Would you like a drink?' She stripped off her gloves and other latex garments and opened the door, following up a stairwell to her spacious, airy house. It was as tidy as the lab below, but the light colours teamed with rich, the curtains heavy, the cushions plump, and the central heating jammed up nicely to shut November outside: it was quite a contrast to to cold white glare of the hidden lab.

Wine was poured, shoes were kicked off; both women walked through to the sitting room and collapsed on the sofa. Amie rubbed the back of her neck, which was clearly strained from being craned over a microscope for the best part of three hours. 

'Are we doing wrong, Amie?'
'You have asked me this daily for years. Wrong and right cannot be seperated by childhood morals. The world is failing and there is no nice solution to this.'
It was final, her tone, but Rachel pressed on.
'Yet an increase in photosynthesis rate would halt global warming, a little education would put hydroelectric cars on the market, and a spread of the wealth would solve poverty!'
'Would it, though? Six and a half billion people in the world. The more people we have, the higher the demand for food; the more people we have, the more crop and livestock resources they take.' Amie smiled, enjoying this mock-argument. 'Greater good, Rachel.'
'It's such a trouble for us, though. I have thought, Amie,' she breathed sharply, not sure if this would rile her friend or not, 'That we cannot be the only people in the world prepared to go to these lengths to maintain the world, and indeed repair it. Would it be sensible to involve other powers?'
'Powers?' Amie's eyed flashed with a dangerous interest. 'You mean the president, for example?'
Rachel nodded, waiting for Amie's reaction.
'This must progress first. When the specimens are ready, we will try.'
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May 2043

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The End

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