———————Chapter One ——————

———Wednesday, July 11th, 2305 ———

———A Fine House in the Suburbs ———

"I love you grandma!" The thirteen-year-old girl with shining blonde hair smiles brightly. She pulls a tray of double-fudge brownies out of the oven. The soft yellows and folds of the kitchen around them smell like cinnamon and lime. A fountain takes up one wall, water pouring over thin tubes of neon lights. 

"Oh you're absolutely welcome sweetheart. I hope you like them. It's an old recipe. Very old. Of course it's been updated over the years to keep it fresh. But the core of it is as old as our family itself." The woman, with brown and gray hair and winged eyeliner surrounding her eyes, smiles back. Full of affection for the young girl. 

"I don't think I'll ever be able to make them quite like you do though grandma. And since this is such a family recipe I feel bad." Her eyes are a bit wide. She's not down on herself, no, but she's definitely pretending to be. 

"Aww there's nothing to feel bad about sugarcane. I'll be around for a while longer. A long while. And I'll make you all the brownies your heart desires." The blue glitter lining her eyelids twinkles with her smile. 

"Why are you so nice?! These smell so good though." There is excitement in her voice as she opens up her hoverboard, the sleek, flat, dark blue little disk buzzing a bit before suctioning onto her shoes and then lifting a few inches into the air, smoothly gliding into the spacious dining room. Her grandmother follows her, on a lime green hoverboard that has railings for her to hold onto. They settle down on one of the many plush chairs as the table adjusts to their specific heights. 

They turn on the television and flick through channels until it is set to a drawing competition. The three-dimensional images of colourful and cheery people working on colourful and cheery images of their own spark to life as the three-dimensional surround-sound of talking fills the air. 

"This sounds good, what do you think Anne-Marie?"

"Grandma what the heck. It's boring!" 

"Nonsense. So much fine skill goes into their work and they create beautiful things. When I first met your grandfather, it was at an advanced artistic summer camp oh

so many years ago. He was blown away by my drawings. He said they were almost as beautiful a as I was. Pay attention, you'll see that there's a lot more to see than you think at first." 

"That's such a sweet story. I've heard it before but it's so sweet. Your drawings are still breathtaking grandma." 

"Thank you Anne-Marie. I do really love drawings." 

And-Marie pauses to think for a little bit, her face filmed in concentration. 

"Ika has the same staight and precise hand that you do, doesn't she?" 

"Of course she does. Do you think that's something I was about to neglect?" 

"I know, I know. I trust you Grandma. But I just want to be sure." There is a hint of worry in her cheery voice. 

"Well you can see for yourself." The woman pushes a sleek button on the side of the table, and a microphone swiftly slides down from a compartment on the roof. 

"Ika come to the living room!" She barks out in a voice like half-molten rock. "And get your sketch pad and pencils." 

They continue talking for a few minutes, biting into the warm, soft, chewy brownies. 

"Yes?" A girl, a few months into being 10 years old, walks on hurried feet into the room. She has slightly curly, strawberry blonde hair. Her light blue eyes strikingly resemble the older woman's, as do her slightly bent up nose, high cheekbones, and her round jawline. 

"Show Anna-Marie here how precise your drawing hand is." 

Something like sorrow flickers in Ika's eyes for a moment a she looks at the blonde girl. 

"Yes of course." She speaks softly, placing a simple pad of white paper in front of her on the floor and picking up the charcoal pencil behind her ear. "What would you like me to draw?" 

"Draw Anne-Marie here, she's so beautiful." 

"No, draw grandma but younger. Grandma I want to see how you looked when grandad met you. I mean I've seen pictures, but they don't always do the same sort of justice that drawings do. You were beautiful then. Still are." 

"Damn right I was beautiful. But if you want to see what I looked like back then look no farther than Ika, I was only a year older than she is now." 

"Still grandma please"

"Fine. Ika, draw me. Here I'll give you this picture to reference off of." Her voice has gone cold again. It's so strange how her voice can change from sugar sweet to iron hard so easily. 

Within a few minutes Ika is done and so are half of the brownies. 

"Ooh it's so pretty!" Anne-Marie looks at the drawing, then at the subject of it. "You're right, every bit of your talent is reflected within her. I'm glad." 

"Yes you have no reason to worry dear. Ika you can leave." 

"Um ..." Ika stares with big eyes full of fear and longing. "... can I maybe just have a little piece of a brownie?" 

The woman looks like her as if she has said something absolutely ludicrous. 

"Ika you know they are not healthy. Sugar and butter and fat. You have to take care of that body. It was a gift. No, a loan, and you can't disrespect those who granted you your time within it by completely disregarding it." Protectiveness is ingrained in her voice but no kindness. 

Ika takes a deep, shakey breath. 

"Okay. You're right. That was thoughtless of me. Anyways, thank you. It's time for me to take a bath. Have a good afternoon." She pulls her lips into a convincing smile and walks away ghost-like. 

—————— Chapter Two ———————

——— Friday November 3rd, 2303 ———

——— A Sanctificum in the City ———

There are ten children, all wearing back cotton shirts and black cotton pants, sitting on a carpet on the floor of a softly-lit room. The walls are white-painted and full of pictures of smiling adults with family and friends. Often younger people in colourful clothing would also be in the frame. Cheesy. Cheerful. There are flowers framing the edges. A lady who looks to be in her mid-thirties is standing at the front of the room, in front of a screen that shows pictures of embryos.

All the children sit straight up, unmoving, faces carefully blanked. But you can see the concentration in their eyes, along with something else. Something ... sadder. 

Ika is in this crowd, a sad-eyed and wide-eyed eight-year-old listening intently, as if to religion. Though, perhaps that isn't far off. 

"Existence is a gift," the lady at the front of the room says in her intelligent and chilled voice. Her pressed white lab coat almost glows in the soft light. "What do we think about that, young ones?" 

A young boy with dark curly hair and honey-brown skin raises his hand tentatively. 

"Yes, Keem?" 

"We must be grateful for the gift," he says in a small voice, one that has a slight tremble to it. 

"That's absolutely right," the woman announces in her voice which presses like metal. 

"You must remember to always be grateful and thankful for your lives. They are a gift. Those that created you did not need to give you this gift. They did not need to give you the existence you want to covet and hold. But they did anyways. And that is an act of generosity. And act of good grace." 

Ika figets just a bit. She clenches her hands into fists, and then immediately unclenches them and folds them together on her lap.

"Every single moment that you are alive is a gift. It is not a moment you would have had otherwise. And gifts are to be accepted with what kind of attitude?" 

A little girl with dark auburn hair and slightly tanned skin raises her hand. 

"Yes?" 

"Reverence. Sweetness. Thankfulness. Loyalty." Her words are mechanical and forced. 

"Absolutely. Loyalty, young ones, remember that. Loyalty. Loyalty means that you must do what you're told. It means that you must seek to make happy the people who gave you the ultimate gift." 

Ika hugs her knees. She presses herself into as small of a space as possible, straining her thin arms. 

"Ika don't hurt your body, it is a work of genius." 

"Yes Doctor." 

"Anyways. Everybody, pay attention. When you are given a gift, it is customary to give something back in return. When you are given a gift as thoughtful as life, as existence, it is necessary to give a gift in return that is also thoughtful, and will bring happiness to the person who bestowed to you your gift." She waves her hand and the screen of the projector switches to an image of a couple in their late forties or early fifties leaning against each other in the middle of a flower garden. They are smiling serenely. 

"Originally-occurring people have so many bonds of love trying them together. Love is important and should be celebrated. And for them, it hurts to lose a loved one to old age. They find joy in being able to be with their friends and their family. That type of joy is not something synthetics like you can understand. And it's not something synthetics like you need." 

Around the room, young people glance at each other tentatively. Quickly. Moving their eyes more so than their heads. Making bursts of eye contact that linger before quickly snapping away. 

"You were not born to mothers and fathers. You do not have the family dynamics that original people have. You have never grown up with this. So you do not need it. You do not need it because you were not accustomed to it. People need what they have grown accustomed to. Value the relationships they have grown closer to. For you life is the act of living itself. Life is the act of living and being grateful for what you have been granted. Understood?" 

There is a messy disunited choir of "yes"'s all said in different mostly blank tones. 

"You do not understand the bonds that original people have with each other. And that's just as well, because you can live your lives free of such burdens. But for those of us who are forced to live a life where we cling on to other people, it is really tragic for us to be robbed of life and the ability to be with our loved ones. You do feel enough basic empathy to understand that, don't you, children?" 

A handful of yes's rose from the crowd below. 

She flicks her hand again and this time a picture of a young boy holding hands with an adult couple shows up on the screen. They are walking through some sort of park, a fountain in the background. 

"Imi, tell us about basic empathy." 

A little girl with chocolate-brown hair starts in a voice that has tremendous amounts of trembling behind layers of blankness. 

"Basic empathy means we feel for originals and we understand that their lives are valuable." 

"And why?" 

"Because they need their lives. They have attachments to other people that we could never understand." 

"And what of your life?" 

"I would never have it if it wasn't for them and that's what I must remember on the topic. That's what is most important." 

"And can you be happy in your life?" 

"Of course, as long as I remember to be thankful to those who gave it to me." 

She flicks her hand again and on the screen there is a picture taken in bright, soft lighting of a middle-aged man towering over a young child. 

"And how do we be thankful? Everybody answer. How do we be thankful for the gracious people who gave you your lives?" 

"By giving them something precious back." They say this together like a well-oiled machine. The young children are very rehearsed. And they are scared. But you would never realize. 

"And what is it that we give back?" 

"We give them time." A weary, grieving, diligently emotionless chorus breaks in together. 

"Yes! You synthetics are so well taught! My last class was so selfish and jealous and irrational! You realize that you must have empathy for them and be grateful that they gave you life. You must give life back so they may have more time with their families. I'm very proud. You guys are very grateful and loyal and gracious." She flicks at the screen again and a picture of a heart appears, red against a yellow background. 

"Your creators love you. They paid a lot of money to create you. So you must not struggle or fight when it's time for you to go. They will become old and frail if they do not have a new body to transfer their minds to. They will become old and frail and eventually they will die. You do not want that, surely. They gave you your life but your body is a loan. A loan that you have to give back when it's your turn to give them time. Understand?"

"Yes." The children reply, out of sync with each other. There is something broken underlying their voices. 

"I know you can be more enthusiastic than that!"

"Yes!!" they manage to half-shout. 

"Wonderful. Let me go through the process of giving your body back. We will sedate you before we replace your brain with the brain of your creator. It will feel even more peaceful than falling asleep. You won't feel an ounce of pain. See, how merciful we are? Sedatives cost precious money, and we could do the procedure without any painkillers at all if we chose. But our hearts are good and therefore you owe us your gratitude." 

The children have all subconsciously huddled closer to each other by now, not close enough for the lady to notice, but close enough that they can occasionally brush fingers or knees with each other. They still look up at her with wide eyes and attention. 

"Let me highlight the process, and what is expected of you during it..."