The Darwinians

 

 

“Kids get sick,” the raven-haired man says. “That’s why we have an infirmary.”

“This isn’t exactly the common cold,” the woman says.

“We’re asking one brain to handle two consciousnesses. We can’t expect everything to go according to plan. Consider the advances we’re already seeing.”

“But Alex’s situation is unexplainable. His lungs are operating as if he’s been smoking for fifty years.”

“It’s psychosomatic,” explains the white-bearded man. “His brain only thinks he has emphysema. There is no physical degeneration.”

“He can barely breathe.” She turns away and coughs.

“We are not shutting down this Program because one kid is having a temporary health issue,” the raven-haired man says.

“If his life is at stake, we should consider—”

“Out of the question,” the bearded man says.

“I suggest we cut back on his dream sessions for the time being,” the woman says. “We can medicate him to limit his REM cycles.” She places her trembling hands on the mahogany conference table. “He needs rest.”

“Not possible,” the raven-haired man says. “We need all of them working as much as they can to make a major advance and prove the Program’s success. Then, there is no limit to where we can go. Rest can wait.”

“I agree,” says the bearded man. “Continue as planned.”

“How is our Nobel for Literature?” the woman asks in between coughs.

“Cecil isn’t concerned,” the raven-haired man says, dismissively.

“Are you sure he’s paying attention to the right things?”

“This is about accelerating the future. It’s never easy, and it’s never without cost.”

“Certainly. But let’s keep them alive, shall we?” the woman says.

“Of course,” the bearded man answers, looking up at the portrait of the woman with curly, salt-and-pepper hair. “But let’s also remember who we’re committed to keep alive when you say them.”