The Darwinians

 

 

“I’ve found the boy,” the man in the gray-blue suit reports to the woman and two men arranged on the opposite side of the highly polished, mahogany conference table.

One wall is lined with framed portraits of serious-looking people, most of them etched with decades of wrinkles. Their eyes hold the cool confidence of aptitude and accomplishment, although each gaunt face betrays the fact that none of them are well.

“The boy?” the man with a perfectly trimmed, white beard asks.

“Yes. I’m certain.”

“Will there be complications?” asks the man with slick, raven-black hair.

“There’s no reason to believe he’ll be a hostile recruit. The situation is favorable.”

“Are you sure they’ll keep it confidential?” the woman with the helmet of gray hair asks before turning away to cough. An ominous, gurgley cough.

“It’s a good arrangement … and I’ve uncovered a few things. They won’t betray us.”

“I would like to underscore my opposition to this plan,” the white-bearded man says, firmly. “Including Art debases our core disciplines.”

“We had no choice,” the raven-haired man says. “We needed that grant. Still, every subject is a risk, and doubly so with that kid.” He shakes his head in disgust. “He’s a street punk.”

“He’s an orphan,” the woman says. “That doesn’t automatically make him a hoodlum.”

“And you’re certain this is the one he insisted on?” the bearded man asks.

“Unconditionally,” the man in gray-blue answers.

“Perfect.” The raven-haired man slaps both hands on the conference table. “Let’s proceed.”