Born Unto Trouble (Pt 1 of 2)

The chu-dunk of the chipper was a staple sound in Edwin’s life. Almost like a heartbeat; instinctive, life-affirming, and a needed constant for society to function. Sometimes, when Edwin felt particularly tetchy, it would allow him to relieve stress through its therapeutic, repetitive pattern.
Chu-dunk. This one would grow up to be big and strong, specifically engineered to be a labourer on one of The Executive’s camps, to build the next great monument to mark His legacy as leader for all in the Atlantic Union to see, as was by design. He will age, and by twelve he will be genetically ready for donation, and thus, the legacy will continue. Edwin wrote ‘L64-Z9’ on the tag hanging from the tranquil child’s umbilical cord, and pushed a green button by his left leg. The child’s eyes were shocked open by the sudden burst of energy pulsing through his small frame, stimulating him out of his stupor and activating the chip. His cries were heard as he was whisked away by an expressionless nurse with a permanent smile, and the next child was placed in front of him. This time it was a girl, slimmer than the previous male. Clutching the chipper, Edwin brought it to the top of the girl’s neck. He pulled the trigger.
Chu-dunk. She would be in culinary – she had the ambidexterity necessary to operate the machines in The Executive’s factories, feeding the Atlantic Union with foodstuff specifically concocted to provide just the right amount of calories necessary to sustain blissful happiness, as was by design. At twelve, the child would donate, and hers would house another’s legacy. Edwin wrote ‘C23-Z13’ on the tag hanging from the immobile child’s umbilical cord, and pushed the green button by his left leg. The child screamed as the energy pulsed through her small frame, causing Edwin to wince at the pitch. Her cries were still heard even as she was whisked away by the same expressionless nurse with the permanent smile. Another child was placed in front of him, this time a boy with a wiry frame and pale skin. Once more, the chipper was brought to the top of the boy’s neck. He pulled the trigger.
Chu-dunk. This one would be a fuser, Edwin could tell just by looking at him. He would do a similar job to L64-Z9; he would make sure that The Executive’s facilities are carefully watched over, without a hint of a frown and a constant desire to succeed for the Atlantic Union, as was by design. He would know the internal workings of any machine powered through fusion. At twelve he would donate, and his legacy would continue. Edwin wrote ‘E9-Z1’ on the tag hanging from the motionless child’s umbilical cord, and pushed the green button by his left leg. The child’s eyes shot open as the energy pulsed through him, but he did not scream; he appeared to smirk; of course he would, being born to fuse. His silence was heard still, even as he was whisked away by the expressionless nurse with the permanent smile. Another child was placed in front of him. The chipper was already in hand.
Chu-dunk.

Edwin slumped in his office chair, running his puckered fingers through his long, once-tidy hair, noting flecks of grey with forefinger and thumb. He sighed. He was older than most doctors. He was one of the final True Conceptions, the last of the natural births, and therefore had to work hard to become a chipper – he was not commanded by design, he was commanded by thought and emotion. He’d gone through ten years of taxing schooling, then another three years to earn the doctorate he desired. Edwin was, by all standards, a perfect employee – aside from the lack of chip in his neck. The government could not hear his thoughts, and that made him a liability in comparison to the new fourteen-year-old Constructions who were almost eager to be manipulated. It was this earth-shattering reality that Edwin came to terms with every evening, physically exhausted and mentally drained, having to control his emotions around his superior colleagues, for fear of treachery. And once again, it had been a long day.
He cast his gaze across his desk to see a node flashing brightly in the darkness; he had a message. Edwin called out: “Play.” The accented but pleasant voice of his secretary, A6-Z4, hung in the air.
“Good af’ernoon Doctor, this’s A6, I hope you’re havin’ another brilliant day–” he smirked, “–and that everythin’ went successfully in today’s operations. I just wanted to remind you of your meetin’ with Commander Susa tomorrow morning to recap this past month.” Edwin’s head fell into his hands. His supervisor had always been an unpredictable one, especially surrounding his work. A6 continued.
“Anyways sir, The Executive blesses you, have a marvellous rest of your day!”

--x--

The sky was darker than dark, blacker than black. People were streaming onto the busy streets of London; Constructions and True Conceptions comfortable in almost-naïve bliss. Edwin joined the furore, clutching his damp briefcase, still wet from this morning's rain. He had now donned his hat, and plugged his cordless headphones into his ears to ignore the horrible sounds of Britain's capital city. He murmured a song name, and on it came, a melody from his teen years; a propaganda-fuelled song about the greatness of the Executive and the National Freedom Party, accompanied by a rap verse not out of place in the early twenty-first century. Edwin knew all the words, but refused to sing them. In public, he was a pleasant and pious man, always happy to lick the giant, conglomeratic, lead-filled boots of the Party, but in private he kept himself to himself, and followed the long-since-forgotten act of 'free-thinking'. Here, he used the song purely as blocking noise; he would rather listen to the propaganda of the government than the incessant chirpy witterings of the citizens of Free London, 2088. Things had been better in the sixties.

It had been raining for the last hour of Edwin’s walk home, and only appeared to subside as he approached his front door. Huffing, he retracted his umbrella and stamped his feet, shaking London's grime onto Martha’s ‘The Executive Welcomes You to Our Home!’ doormat. The door opened, recognising his touch and he stepped in. But an instant passed when Martha ran over, tears streaming down her cheeks, staining the apron, tied around her neck. Edwin hugged his wife tightly, whispering to her.
“What's happened?” She sobbed more so, hugging even tighter, cutting off his circulation. He allowed her to calm slightly before repeating himself. She wiped her tears with her sleeve, and looked at him.
“I can’t do this, Edwin! The women at work never stop! Always happy, always smiling; it was too much! I snapped! I… I don't know what to do!” And she wept once more. Edwin had never been particularly prolific with words, and yet again none came to him. He allowed the crying to waver slowly, before trying to ease Martha’s crushing grip from around his waist and guiding her to the living room. She lay down on the sofa; he walked to the kitchen and made her a strong tea.
“So, tell me, Martha,” Edwin called through, stirring the cup, “what’s caused this?” This time, he could hear her stifling her tears. He pulled the teabag from the mug, before dropping a caffpod in to add another kick. Walking through carefully, he sat down next to her. She rested her head in his lap, and Edwin, caressing her hair, handed her the tea and waited patiently. Martha swallowed harshly, before wiping her eyes, ignoring the tea.
“It’s been going on for weeks,” she began, “this feeling of nothingness! We can’t be together outside the house; I can’t compete with these Constructions at work; you’re being run ragged by them… I can’t handle it any longer.” Edwin continued to play with her hair, pinching a choice one between his index and forefinger. Outside of their home, they would never get away with this level of intimacy; they would be stripped of their jobs, their rights, and of their dignity. In their home was the only place the couple could be as couples were meant to be. Martha continued.
“We’ve always talked about going. Leaving. Moving on. They’ll come for me, especially after this, and I don’t want you to be sucked up into this.” She’d suddenly gotten very quiet. Edwin looked at her.
“I hope you’re not actually thinking about this. Martha. Martha!” There was no reply from the woman.
“I have to do this, Edwin. I need you to be strong for me.” Edwin looked stunned.
“But what have you done?” he said, helplessly. “Is what you’ve done this bad? To do this? Something as crazy as this?” Martha ignored this, and looked him dead in the eyes.
“I need you to continue. Strive for change. Man is born in trouble. Be the spark that flies upward.”
She sat up, placing the completely-forgotten tea on the table next to her chair, wiping her eyes once more. She looked at him, and smiled a wet grimace. Edwin looked stranded, sat alone on the sofa.
“I’ll get ready.”

--x--

Edwin staggered around the kitchen in an almost-drunken state. His wife was going to die, and he was going to help her. His arms performed the acts his heart begged him not to. He gathered the necessary components of death: a bowl, filled with napsules. Three candles, all red. A solitary match. A glass cup. His courage. Composing himself, he walked into the main room.
On the sofa sat his beautiful wife, upright, dressed in deep crimson. A lump caught in Edwin’s throat. He’d been there when she’d bought this dress; she’d said she wanted to die in it. He never thought he’d see that day. She looked up at him, clutching the hems of her dress. Edwin knelt beside her, trembling slightly. Martha steadied his quivering hands, forcing a sombre smile. He smiled back, lip quaking, lighting the first candle. Martha held out her right hand and took it, ignoring the dripping wax on her fingers. The same was prepared with her left hand. The final candle was lit, and he placed it in her lap. She looked up at her husband, and nodded. He nodded back, choking back a whimper. Edwin poured the napsules into the cup, and held them to his wife’s open mouth, murmuring his goodbyes. She started to cry, but Edwin wiped the tears away silently.
She was quiet. He was quiet. And he poured the pods.

--x—

The funeral was a discrete one. Two days after Martha’s passing, Edwin hosted a small open-casket ceremony, with only a few of his late wife’s close friends showing. The media had swept over the story as an act of governmental defiance, yet another definitive reason to have Constructions fully permeate society, and instigate the removal of the rest of the True Conceptions. There had been a small inquest with police, but nothing had been followed up. Edwin had stayed silent. He played the subdued widower to a traitor wife, a man lost to the world, and deserved of peace. His supervisor was sympathetic to his situation; Susa called to his door with her condolences, a small gift basket of assorted foodstuff, and a leave of paid absence for two weeks. Edwin took them with a watery smile, deep in his newly-found revolutionary thoughts, all in the name of Martha. He had few visitors, with only his brother visiting from Glasgow from his family, even which was a fleeting call. He seemed almost worried that the traitorous nature of Martha may somehow infect him if he were to stay longer than half an hour. But Edwin preferred the solace of his own mind. He was a free man now. Martha had freed him.
Once the final guest had escorted themselves out with an uncomfortable smile, Edwin rushed from the room and into his study, the first genuine happiness on his face for days. He grabbed his frayed address book, flipping through as he dialled his work’s office. It tapped through almost immediately.
“Well good mornin’, the Executive greets you, this’ Dr. Edwin Harris’ office at the EHATS, my name’s A6-Z4, how may I help?”
“A6, it’s Edwin,” he said, still flipping through the book, “how are you today?”
“Oh, sir!” A6 had to force solemnness. “I’m… perfectly okay, but you’s, doctor? In light of… recent events?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” Edwin said, in an all-too-flippant voice, “I just wanted to remind you that I’m not in for the next week or so, so please plan accordingly.” He cut short the turning of the book, finding the page. He cheered silently.
“Well, sir, if you says so, sir. I’ll order in a replacement. Would you rather P8 from Zone 3, or P4 from Zone 7?” Edwin cursed under his breath; both Constructions.
“Just… pick the best for the situation. I have to go, A6, I have a lot of people here.”
“O’course, doctor, o’course! I’ll let you get back to it. The Executive blesses you, have a marvellous–!” Edwin hung up before hearing the rest of the cheery farewell. She was a sweet girl, but still, a Construction. Sometimes she was a little too much to handle. Still clutching the phone, he punched in a longer number; one he’d almost forgotten existed. This call took longer to be put through, and when answered, the sound was slightly distorted and less resonant than today’s phones – something Edwin missed. A confident but worn voice spoke through the crackles.
“I never thought I would hear this voice again.” Edwin grinned childishly.
“Good morning, Professor Lowell–”
“It’s just Grace, now. Constructions took my job away from me. Redundancy does not age me well, Edwin; I am but a failed scientist, struggling in a youthful world of robots.”
“That’s why I’ve called you, Grace,” Edwin said quietly, “I need to be your student again.” There was a pause. A clearing of the throat.
“Do you still live in that home of yours? The one with your wife?” Edwin swallowed.
“It’s just me, now. Martha died… recently.”
“…that’s frightful. She did seem a lovely girl. Though I suppose she has the better deal in all this. We still suffer on.” Grace had a terrible bluntness about herself which Edwin greatly admired. It had always been something that he could never quite perform himself. It was an attribute he respected from afar, hoping to absorb the qualities and execute to perfection; though Grace was the master of it. There was a snap on the other end of the phone, as though she had clapped to garner attention, like she had years ago in her lecture hall.
“Right then, I suppose your house is off limits. I have a small shack not thirty miles out of the city. They can’t monitor you there. I shall send you the location. Meet me there later today. I’m already waiting.” There was a click, and a slow beep.

--x--

Edwin stepped off the train as it pulled up to the edge of the road. He snapped his GPS shut, gazing around at the boggy mess of a landscape. He’d passed the Marshes of Kessex, and was now on a raised area of Southend-Under-Sea. It was a small village of houses, all shacks, all tall, all appearing abandoned. He looked at the address: number nine. Edwin approached the door of the shack, stopping himself from knocking. Looking around the outside of the cabin, he was mesmerised. Since the government had regulated housing designs to limit free expression, he was not accustomed to seeing different structures, yet this was something drawn from a picture book. Long pine tree trunks rose in towering columns, appearing sewn together. A pediment of slats lined the top of the door frame in a beautiful display of creative prowess. The door itself was oak; hard and powerful, like the woman inside. This cabin was so masterful, humans could not have created it. It could only be the mind of a deity to have the structural ingenuity to form such a glorious construction. The door swung open to break the fantasy in Edwin’s mind. Stood tall was the authoritative Grace Lowell. She smiled at him, the slight wrinkles around her grey eyes betraying her well-hidden age. Dressed plain but practical, with red hair up, she raised high with a stance to be respected. Edwin respected Grace beyond measure.
“You look good, Edwin,” she said, looking him up and down, “life has done you well, apart from that ghastly skin tone. Now, come in. It is by no means warm out there.” She walked away from the door, leaving it open. Edwin walked inside, and was just as stunned and smitten with the interior as he was the exterior. The pine logs had been replicated on the inside, soaring high to wooden ceilings great enough to stroke the clouds. The walls were decorated simply but with veneration, with framed artwork and modest lighting arrangements. There was no technology, but a small oven lit by gas holding a kettle, and a refrigeration unit. But the centrepiece was the log fire surrounded by a handsomely-carved mantelpiece, and two fabric armchairs. The etchings of animals frolicking and children playing danced in the form of shadows, cast against the indented walls as the fire licked the wood. Edwin could stare for eternity, joining them, aching with longing. He imagined Martha as one of the children playing. He imagined the children playing as his own. A single tear rolled down his cheek, which he wiped away swiftly. There was no time for weakness.
Grace turned around and looked at Edwin staring at the fire. She walked past him, clutching two glasses of water, before sitting in one of the armchairs. She held out one of the waters, smiling at him.
“Come and sit with me, Edwin. We have much to discuss.” Edwin looked at her absently, still lost in the world of the shadows. But he walked over, sat in the chair, took the water, and opened up. He told her of Martha, of the Constructions, of his home, of his work. He reminisced over his life gone by, of his teachings under Grace herself. How he’d always wanted to work in new-age technology, and how he’d felt after being fast-tracked by the professor. About his celibacy, his emotions, his work, his wife.
His wife. Her revolution. His spark.
The uprising.

--x--

Grace sat and listened intently. Everything Edwin said gripped her and resonated with her like no person had before, Construction or otherwise. She listened, nodded at the right moments, but crucially allowed the broken man to pour his heart out. It was the only way he would heal. And once he was done, she nodded once, stood up, and poured herself another glass of water.
“Another drink, Edwin?” He looked at her almost incredulously.
“Is that it? ‘Another drink’? What about everything I just said?”
“Oh yes, I understand,” Grace said patiently, “completely and truly. Quite remarkable everything you have been through and managed to remain with some sort of semblance of stability. However, now is not the time for revolutionary musings. Now is the time for drinking. You have been talking for nigh on half an hour. Surely your throat must ache somewhat.” Edwin looked into the fire once more. The shadows seemed to have become just shadows once more. He nodded at her grudgingly, and his glass was refilled.
“What we need, is a plan, dear boy, do you not think? We need to touch on these things you feel, that I feel, that Martha, bless her soul, felt.” She sipped. “Are you sane?” Edwin had taken a slight sip at this point and spluttered.
“Excuse me?!”
“I said, are you sane? Is there an essence of insanity in you? Do you have any existential emotions that could be linked with irrationality and folly?” Edwin laughed coldly at her candour.
“My wife just died, just so that I could be some ‘spark’ that starts a revolution. I’m angry. I want to kill all that stands in the way of me. The Executive, the NFP, the masses of Constructions that just don’t get it! I am furious! I am angry! Does that answer your question?” Grace sniffed, and looked him up and down once more.
“I suppose it does. Let’s tap into that rage, shall we? I think it’s about time we ruminate something substantial in the ways of a plan, yes?” With this, she pulled out a notebook and a pencil, and began noting down things she felt were important. Edwin looked back to the shadows as the ex-professor murmured to herself ideas, and found himself engrossed once more. He was now one of the shadows. He had escaped. He had joined his wife and his unborn children. He was free.

“I think the most imperative thing to latch onto is governmental defiance. What is it that the ruling regime deems to be the most horrifying of all things?” Grace looked at Edwin. “Well, come on boy, say something.” Edwin glanced over at her from the shadows, a pondering look on his face.
“Well, I suppose it would be freedom.”
“‘Suppose’?” Grace sounded incredulous. “It is not ‘suppose’, it is the very definition of horrification in their power-driven eyes. ‘Suppose’… pah! Their reasoning is to perfect humans. The reality of the circumstances is to limit freedom and cull passion. Emotions, sentiments, feelings, opinions, attitudes! All potent forces against the Executive’s kinsmen.” Grace’s tangents were sometimes some of the most powerful things Edwin witnessed. Even throughout college she was the same, projecting her outlook with the same tenacity.
“So, what do you suggest?” Grace looked at him witheringly.
“Edwin, could you be slightly less dense? If we are going to work together I could use a little more co-operation. Of course I’m talking about the two of us engaging in sexual acts. Now—” Edwin spluttered on a sip of water.
“Excuse me?”
“Sex. Coitus. Copulation. Fornication between the two of us. I believe it will evoke that passion that you are clearly lacking.” The bluntness was disarming. Her facial expression was almost that of concrete; flat, hardened and never-changing. Edwin was hesitant.
“But… sex? Is that really the way to go? I don’t even know the first thing—”
“Nonsense. It’s all natural. How do you think those before us had offspring, without the technology and the science to tell us how or what we should do? Through base instincts, and through passion. I think we need to tap into those base instincts of yours. We need to make you feel.” Edwin saw how Grace was correct. He had no passion. Just Martha, the spark. She ignited the revolution; Grace will feed it; he will finish it. He nodded at her, almost embarrassed. She nodded back, and stood, holding out her hand. He took it, and they walked together to the bedroom.

The first time between Grace and Edwin was unusual. Edwin felt a rush of emotions he’d never had before as Grace eased off and stood up, walking naked to the bathroom, silent. He lay, panting, unsure of what to do. He knew that sex was supposed to evoke something in him, but it seemed to stir something he never expected. He felt more alive than ever. He realised that sadness and longing weren’t the only emotions he could feel. Edwin was awake. Edwin was ready.
Grace walked out from the bathroom dressed in an unflattering bathrobe, brushing her teeth. She pulled out the toothbrush to talk.
“Okay, I believe it’s time to get down to business. Get some clothes on, boy. That belly is not all that attractive in this light.” Edwin laughed as she turned around to walk back to the bathroom – he laughed. He could not remember the last time he had laughed. Leaping up, he pulled on his trousers and shirt, leaving his socks off, purely because he felt like it. This feeling of freedom was something of a surprise to him. He felt he could conquer the world. This passion Grace had discussed before was now so potent it almost terrified him.
He could do anything.

--x--

The door shut softly, Edwin walking calmly out, clutching a wad of pages littered with coded notes. It was odd to go back to handwriting like he had when he was thirteen, but it was the most effective way; it could not be tracked by the Party. Slipping them in his pocket, he hailed a train and jumped on as it eased to a halt. The carriages were separated down the middle: Constructions and True Conceptions, with only a walkway to part them. This was never in spite of the True Conceptions, the government swore upon it – it was purely for ease of relationships. Twenty years ago there wouldn’t have been much to distinguish the numbers; here, Edwin was alone.
He found a space next to a window facing the Marshes, and gazed out, recollecting his thoughts from the morning. He’d had sex; Edwin Harris, the once-celibate, once-married man had had sex. Edwin did not feel joy at this thought, but he did not feel sadness, either. It was hope that he now felt. Martha had told him to be the spark for change. This was just one step in the right direction. Abruptly, his internal musings were interrupted.
“Hello sir, the Executive welcomes you on the National Train Service! Taking you straight to freedom! I am S6-Z10, and I will be the train guard for your journey!” It was an expressionless Construction with a blank smile. Edwin held out his license, but S6-Z10 didn’t appear to notice it. She was too busy going through her routine, staring straight through him.
“I hope you’ve enjoyed your journey so far, and that you’ve had a pleasant day! We’re currently passing through the Marshes of Kessex – and if you look closely you’ll see the houses from decades ago still poking through! – before making our way into Free London, the greatest of the capitals in the world! To ensure that you have an even better day, could you have your license presentable and waiting for me to view and stamp! Thank you for your co-operation!” Only now did she appear to see Edwin’s license thrust under her nose, to which she looked at and smiled.
“Thank you, sir!” She pressed a stamp on the empty page, before moving onto the Constructions wittering on Edwin’s left, repeating the same speech. Edwin went back to his own thoughts, ignoring the pertness. He pulled out the notes from his pocket, reading and rereading them, intrigued by the plans. There were two options, one dangerous and one deadly; Grace had left it up to him. They could, in plan A, slowly take down members of the National Freedom Party, by spiking their meals and drinks, until eventually they reached the upper rungs and into the arms of the Executive. It was faster, and much more effective. Yet it presented the problem of death on discovery, and Edwin wasn’t ready to take that risk. Plan B was slower and more time-consuming, but less likely to end in demise and that appealed to him. Tomorrow he would begin the plan. Tonight he would rest. Having emotions had made him drowsy. He yawned, and plugged in his cordless headphones, calling out a song name softly. It played loudly in his ears, keeping him awake but allowing him chance to ease into relaxation. Edwin slipped a caffpod into his mouth, allowing the boost to dissolve on his tongue, before resting his head on the window and watching the sun drop over the Marshes.

--x--

The sky was lighter than dark, greyer than black. People were streaming onto the busy streets of London, clutching briefcases and smiling through the grim. Edwin smiled too, clutching his now-empty case, holding up an umbrella to shield his face from the rain and darkness. The Constructions and True Conceptions walked paralleled, in synchronous motions. It was as though there were no differences between the two on the face of it.
The man approached the building of the Executive’s Health and Advanced Technologies Services and, pulling the umbrella down slowly, he passed through the double doors. Instantly a Construction serviceman was there to greet him.
“Good morning sir, the Executive greets you, how may the EHATS be of service to you?” Edwin sent a big faux-grin towards him, holding out his umbrella and license to the man.
“Good morning to you! I am a doctor here; I’ll just be on my way to my office. Here is my license! Could you hold my umbrella until I am finished with business? I won’t be more than an hour.” The serviceman examined the license carefully before taking the umbrella with as big a grin.
“Of course, Dr. Harris! The Executive blesses you, have a splendid rest of your day!”
“And you, my good sir!” Edwin said profusely, walking away, his smile dropping as he left his eyesight. Work was at hand.

The elevator hit the fourth floor, easing to a careful halt, sliding the glass doors open. As Edwin and several Constructions stepped on, enough to fill the gaps piled in, all smiling the same smiles. Navigating to his office, he checked his watch. He had an hour or so before the bulk of the work populous arrived, and he didn’t want to be recognised. The mahogany doors eased open quietly without much resistance and he slipped in, passing the empty desk of his secretary helper. Throwing down his bare briefcase, Edwin scanned the room. This had been his workstation for the last thirteen years. It was odd to have more than a day’s break, let alone the week he had had, with another week to follow. Touching the phone screen attached to his desk to wake it, he called out: “Susa, dial.” A few slow beeps before it clicked with grand clarity, much greater than that of Grace’s phone.
“You’re in early off of your break, Dr. Harris.” It was the monotonous drawl of his Commander that filled the room. Edwin shivered slightly; whilst she was a small woman in stature, it was the powerful, unconcerned voice that gripped anyone and everyone.
“Yes, and I plan to have my break fully, Commander. I just have some files to pick up, and some contacts to talk to from the chipping lab. I thought I’d let you know of my arrival just in case my name cropped up–”
“I already knew you were here, Dr. Harris,” the drawl became smug imperceptibly, “I just hope you understand that we here at the Executive’s Health and Advanced Technologies extend our deepest sympathies towards you. I hope that life alone will suit you. Good day, Dr. Harris.” Her voice shut off, and the phone beeped once. As the call died, Edwin tapped his desk, selecting a few random files to be sent to his briefcase, before shutting it off.

Entering the elevator, he pushed the second-from-bottom button, labelled ‘The Chipping Laboratory’. The doors shut with vigour and the carriage shot downwards, though the inhabitant barely felt it. For the first time in three days, Edwin was alone. He had no one examining him, no people to impress, no one even in his vicinity. He was alone with his thoughts, the rebellion and Martha. His wife was fuelling this desire. He smiled at the thought of his wife, and the times they had spent.
The freedom was doused quickly. The glass doors opened to reveal a room drenched in a blue haze. Action stations were lined with Constructions, working hard, as was by design, fitting chips with tiny vials of golden liquid. Only one looked up as Edwin entered the stuffy environment; a glazed lack of recognition filled his eyes as he waved silently, out of courtesy. Edwin filed past the workers, being sure not to knock them as they tinkered away, smiling blankly. His briefcase’s latches snapped open at the touch of his finger, and he entered the Incubation Container, wrenching open the door, letting a wave of heat sweep over him. Stacked in boxes from floor to ceiling lay unused chips, containing the golden fluid and filed in order of date for usage. Edwin grabbed a box labelled for use in a week’s time and ripped it open. He was careful to make little noise, though the personnel were too engrossed in work to hear. Pouring them cautiously into his bag, the man filled it as far as possible, collating at least a hundred chips. That was a hundred lives saved; Edwin made a mental note. Clasping the case shut once more, he left the room, nodding to that same employee that waved earlier, a nervous jitter reaching his shoulder. The employee kept up his blank smile, waving once more.

Edwin, clutching his briefcase, walked calmly through the double doors of the EHATS building. He began to speed up his pace as he stepped from the sheltered entrance, immediately being doused in Free London’s near-permanent downpour. His pace increased as two guards raced out, holding a long, black stick. Edwin glanced back briefly; he instantly regretted it; he saw the serviceman from earlier, still smiling but with a look of intent in his eyes. His partner was also smiling, though Edwin did not recognise him. At his glimpse back, the serviceman waved his free hand and yelled into the dark rain: “Dr. Harris!” Edwin knew he had to stop, but his feet wouldn’t let him. Adrenaline pumped through his veins and his shoes kept moving, his legs kept walking, his hands kept clutching. He would never relinquish the case. But the two men were in full pelt now, sprinting. Edwin could not sprint. He could barely jog without the possibility of breaking the chips. He conceded defeat, and turned, hands up, still holding the briefcase. His hair was so wet it was dripping into his eyes, and he had to blink to keep his vision from blurring. The two men slowed to a walk, and laughed emotionlessly at the dejected man.
“Doctor, what do you think you’re doing?” the man Edwin did not know said, spluttering in the rain.
“You just forgot your umbrella, Dr. Harris!” The serviceman chuckled and held out the long black stick for Edwin to take. It was indeed his umbrella. Edwin giggled with relief, and the two Constructions laughed some more.
“Have a good day, sir!” the serviceman said, before turning around and walking away with his guard colleague, still laughing between them.
“And you sir…” Edwin murmured to himself as he edged away, gripping his case with one hand and the unopened umbrella with the other, his body saturated by the persistent rain.

--x--

Edwin threw open the study door at home, sighing with relief. He’d now committed two federal crimes in two days: he’d had sexual contact with another person, and he’d stolen governmental equipment. Both were punishable by public humiliation, maybe even death, and yet he’d not only done it, but he’d done it without hesitation. Martha had worked wonders on his confidence. He was the rebellion. He was the change. He was the spark.
He tapped his desk, which rose up a phone. Edwin grabbed it, before punching in the number of Grace. That familiar crackle came on, and the voice of the professor came through, subtly more energised than usual. This time Edwin spoke first.
“I have them.”
“Good. Proceed with the plan, Edwin; I will not dote on you.”
“I need your help,” there was a sound of desperation in Edwin’s voice; there was an exasperated sigh in Grace’s. But before she could speak, Edwin interjected, “but you don’t even have to leave your home. Push the button on the right hand side of the phone.” There was the sound of fumbling.
“Where?” The voice was shouting, but sounded quieter, as if the phone was held from a distance. Edwin smirked to himself.
“The right hand side. There’ll be a little button. Just push it.” Edwin pushed a button of his own on his desk, and up came the projector and display from the floor. A small camera on the front of the wall glowed red to show it was recording. There was a rustle from the phone once more, and Grace’s forehead was cast against the screen, with the sound moving to the speakers in-built into the walls. Grace sighed once more.
“I don’t quite see the point of this, Edwin.”
“Grace, I can show you the chips, and then you can guide me through what to do!” There was another exhalation.
“Edwin, it really is not that problematic. Go and bring a chip here.” Edwin plucked his briefcase and carefully pulled out one of the chips, mindful of the vial of chemicals. Grace’s eyes scoured throughout the room, finding the vial in Edwin’s hand. Her eyebrow rose.
“Okay, Edwin, look at the chip. What significant part of the chip do you see to be different?” He glanced over it.
“Well, the vial. It’s all golden.” She clapped sarcastically.
“Congratulations, we have a victor! Yes, Edwin, the vial. Now, go and pull it out, carefully.” Edwin reached for a pair of tweezers off of his desk, and gripped the thin tip of the vessel, tugging lightly to dislodge it. It fell into his hands, a tiny phial filled with golden liquid. He glanced over it, staring into the opaque fluid.
“Huh. This? I’m lost, Grace. I know it’s a little different…”
“Are you seriously insinuating that in all of your years as a chipper you’ve never once questioned the vials? What they did, what they were for, why they were attached at all?” Edwin shook his head. “I can’t quite believe this. It’s actually surprising me. Do they not go through these things when you’re– of course they don’t, that would be preposterous. But the vial…? No, absolutely not.” Grace turned away from the camera, deep in thought. Edwin stood, still holding the tiny bottle loosely, confused. He cleared his throat.
“Listen, I’ve always just done my job, chipped the babies, passed them on. I never wanted to intervene and ask awkward questions because the Constructions were taking over as it was! I didn’t want to be yet another body they replaced for being curious!” Grace turned back, forefinger to chin.
“I see. Well, I suppose this could be the case. Well, get comfortable, Edwin, I’m about to relinquish some information about this whole chipping absurdity that I discovered after my redundancy.” The man grabbed a chair and sat down, the camera automatically adjusting to match his height. Grace stared at him, taking a sip of water. And then she began.

“Your profession is not all that it seems, Edwin Harris. You know yourself to be a chipper of the EHATS, and one who works hard, keeps his head down and does no evil. Well, this is not the case; you do evil on a daily basis. Not knowingly, of course, but that little golden vial in your hand causes disruption in the so-called freedom of the populous. It is like a circle. Good men and women like yourself are forced to donate your eggs and sperm to the government due to decree. The government takes those cells and formulate the perfect child for the perfect job. This perfect child is birthed and stored in their birthing chamber, and streamed continuous feeds of propaganda. After three weeks of Executive-fuelled lives, the doctors arrive, such as yourself, Edwin. You chip them, and that is where their free life ends. The chip reads their thoughts, and they are consistently monitored for the rest of their lives. National Freedom Party propaganda is streamed into their heads every day through television, through advertisements, through work. They are forced to love the Party as a person, as the Executive and they feel they must do anything the Party says, for the good of the Party. And so they donate their sperm and eggs willingly, slowly changing the nation to a Party-fuelled nation, only be chipped by another chipper like yourself. As is by design.
“That chip you hold in your hand is a replica of every chip in every Construction throughout the entire nation. Some of the early chips that you instilled into children were even deadly. Not that you would know, of course; the EHATS would have been very careful to not let something as grandiose as this let slip to their employees. How are these chips deadly? I see your eyes plead. Surely they just read thoughts? your closed mouth cries. Do not panic; you are lucky, at least now. For the first three years, the government used a man-made chemical called Nulibertasium. The doctor who developed this substance did not equate the mathematics correctly. Each microchip read thoughts - not happenings, thoughts - and upon five thoughts that the government deemed untrustworthy… a lethal dose was released to the brain. What was meant to wipe the mind instead killed the person instantly. It is not known whether any of these tester Constructions are still living. Today a new chemical, Valemorium is used, and once more upon five thoughts of anti-government feelings, such as sex, self-immolation or sedition, the chemical is released. It will wipe the mind of those chipped, and they will become a slave to the government for the remainder of their lives. That is the true representation of lack of freedom. Constructions are deemed the freest of all; they are the most limited specimens on the planet. Perhaps death would have been better.”

--x--

Edwin hadn’t moved from the moment Grace had opened her mouth. He felt rotten, like an apple's core thrown astray into the cold; eaten through and hollowed out by the elements into a mere casing of what he once was. The extent of the government’s power was too much to believe. Reading thoughts had been vile enough, but the killing and enslavement of those who failed to agree with them? Perhaps death would have been better. Grace had been right; Martha might’ve indeed gotten the better deal in all of this. The professor just looked at him through the picture, a tinge of sympathy in her large eyes. She knew better than to say anything.
The twice-broken man looked up at the picture, his heart failing but his mind roaring. He cleared his throat; rubbed his eyes gently. He stood, still holding the chip that meant so much more than it had minutes prior.
“Grace…” Edwin murmured, barely audible, “tell me what to do.”
“Okay.”
“I may not like these Constructions, but they’re still human. No human deserves to be controlled like this.” With this, he sat down and stared intently at the camera. Grace looked back, and smiled.
“Edwin, the chemical held in that tiny microchip is affected directly by heat. The right temperature is needed for it to stay active; in this case, it is body temperature. Should the chemical dip much higher or much lower than that, the substance will denature, and the bonds between the different components will break. The chemical will no longer be harmful. It will be just a liquid released into the body to be absorbed into the bloodstream. Edwin,” Grace looked him dead in the eyes, “I think you have all you need. One hundred and twenty degrees is all you’ll need. We will communicate soon to arrange another meeting.” The camera stopped glowing red, and the projector sank into the floor, leaving just a blank wall and Edwin sat alone on a chair, in a dark room that appeared to be getting dark every second.

Edwin sat up straight, clearing his mind of the anger hazing his thoughts. He sniffed, coughed and stretched, before standing and plucking a small toolbox from beside his desk, filled with the essentials. He grabbed the briefcase of microchips on the way out of the office. He walked almost robotically, forcing his arms and legs to sway when all he wanted was to collapse to the floor and sob into the carpet. His face was kept stern as he reached the kitchen and marble bar, placing both the briefcase and chip on the bar. Beneath the sink was a cupboard full of glass bowls and tubs; Edwin picked the two largest heatproof bowls and placed them next to the briefcase. A lump caught in his throat as he called out: “Work playlist.” On came a garish song, wrapped in guitar riffs and heavy bass, riddled with a man screaming about how the Executive had saved the world. Edwin said: “Karaoke version.” and the lyrics were removed, leaving the riffs and bass to control his work.
Taking a pair of tweezers, he carefully pinched the end of the vial, being sure not to squeeze too hard. With a slight tug, the vial dislodged from the chip, letting air out with a brief hiss. Edwin poured the golden liquid into the ready bowl, and eased the empty tube into the plastic bowl, cautious not to drop it. This process was repeated with every chip Edwin had brought, in an almost rhythmic fashion, until the golden liquid filled half the bowl, and the tiny vials were all empty, leaving de-vialed chips in the briefcase. Edwin smiled at his handiwork, and placed the heat-proof bowl in the oven, calling out the temperature Grace gave him. The oven heated instantly, and the liquid began to rise before his very eyes. The golden colour did not leave the liquid, but the liquid looked very subtly different. It was though it had been dashed with a sprinkling of dirt and mixed carefully. Edwin grinned. One hundred lives saved.

--x--

The second time between Grace and Edwin was more enjoyable for the two of them. Once more, she eased off, no smile, padding naked to the bathroom to clean up, and Edwin smiled at the gloom outside the shack. He stood up, legs steady, and eased on his trousers, walking bare-chested to the bathroom. Grace was once more brushing her teeth in her unflattering bathrobe, and Edwin joined her, taking an unused toothbrush from its packaging. They brushed in silence. Edwin didn’t look at her, only his reflection; Grace stole a solitary glance.
They sat together by the ever-raging fire, sweating from the heat but both too tired to stand and adjust it. Edwin took a sip from his water, and pulled up his briefcase. He touched its clasps, and it snapped open, revealing a solitary microchip in a clear, padded wallet. The liquid had been transferred back to the vial, which had been replaced into its holder. From a distance, it was as new; from up close, two specks of dirt appeared to float in what was before a purely golden fluid. He passed it wordlessly to Grace, who examined it, smiling.
“Good work, Edwin. Nice craftsmanship, by the way. The holder seems to be in a similar place, and it does not appear to have been altered in any way. It’s a shame about the dirty flecks; I did not predict that… though I suppose we cannot have everything.” She handed back the chip. “Is this a good representation for the rest of the chips?” Edwin nodded. “Good. Hopefully when you go back to work the plan can begin to be initiated.”
“It’s like I’m in a cage at home, Grace,” Edwin said, sounding frustrated, “I’m used to working every day, even weekends some weeks, yet I’ve been off of work for almost a whole week now. I’m finding it difficult to find things to do. And I can’t go back to work and pick up more chips or it’ll be suspicious.”
“I find it difficult to suggest something,” Grace smirked, “perhaps you should take up a hobby? You might have a hidden aptitude for singing.” Edwin laughed loudly, and Grace joined in. The two laughed by the fire, their tears glinting gold.

Edwin reached home much later than usual, after the sun had gone down and the darkness was darker than usual. For the first time in a week and a half, the rain had stopped, and Edwin was grinning at the dryness of his clothes.
The door opened at his touch, and he stepped in, scrubbing his feet on the doormat, though it wasn’t necessary. He kicked off his shoes to the left of the door, which flung across the room in a skewed direction. He smirked and called out: “Lights,” the lights in the hallway glistened on, bright and blinding, causing him to throw his hands across his face, “dim, dim!” They darkened slightly, bearable enough for Edwin to walk through. It was well after-dark by now; he would usually sleep, but he felt more awake and alive than ever.
Stumbling over the shoes he’d dashed aside, he fell into his office, laughing at himself. He called out for lights in the room too, and they lit up to the default, just visible enough to do filing. Edwin grimaced at the darkness, and yelled at his house: “Brighter, house! I know you can hear me!” As the light blasted upwards, he hooted with joy, spinning in the dazzle, his grin just as dazzling. He spun and spun, like a child with a new toy. He closed his eyes, seeing stars beneath his lids, seeing them dancing. And he danced with them.
He fell into the chair, panting, his tongue hanging out slightly. His eyes glinted with joy as he threw his possessions off his desk onto the floor. Styluses, keyboard and projectors flew off the desk, but he caught a solitary pencil before it vanished under a cabinet. Edwin stared at it. Yellow and blunt, the tiniest piece of graphite was held on by pure willpower rather than anything tangible. He gripped it, took up a piece of paper, and began to write.

i am edwin harris i am a chipper for the ehats
man is born unto trouble
and i am the spark that flies upward
down with the executive down with the executive down with the executive
youll never take me alive you bastards
i love you Martha

END OF PART ONE