Children of the Artificial Womb: A Cyberpunk Story Read online

  CHILDREN OF THE ARTIFICAL WOMB

  EDWARD PUNALES

  Children of the Artificial Womb

  Written By: Edward Punales

  © 2014, 2015 Edward Punales / All Rights Reserved

  Smashwords Edition

  Cover: Detail Skyline by Bobby Mikul

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the copyright holder.

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Author’s Note: First, I just want to set the record straight to avoid any confusion. This story was originally published under the pen name “Edward Lange.” It has been republished here under my real name. Second, this story contains strong language and graphic violence. Reader discretion is advised.

  The artificial womb had made abortion obsolete.

  The abortion debate had continued much along the same lines without variation over the passing decades; pro-choice advocates defending a woman’s right to choose whether or not she’d want to carry a baby, and pro-life advocates condemning abortion because of its disregard for the human life that was growing inside the mother.

  But the invention of the artificial womb in 2075 completely changed the paradigm. Now, a pregnant woman could end her pregnancy, without causing any harm to the child. The fetus would simply be put into an artificial womb, where it would be grown and taken care of, until its gestation period was complete.

  Within a few years of its creation, the artificial womb became a staple in every hospital in America, alongside the MRI and X-ray machines. In addition, advocates on both sides of the debate unanimously voted for the creation of tax-payer supported, government-run clinics, where women could end their pregnancies free of charge.

  With that, one of the most controversial and heated debates in American history had finally come to an end. The only question left was, what to do with all the unwanted children?

  Hector and his friends executed a rival gang member.

  It'd been a fun kill too. This redheaded kid had walked into Plasmid turf, wearing a green baseball cap and green shirt; the colors of the Handis.

  Hector was part of the Plasmids. They wore purple, and were at war with the Handis. The kid in the green was either stupid, or crazy. Either way, they felt obligated to kill him.

  The redhead Handi tried to put up a fight, but it didn't last. Even the strongest person on the planet couldn't hold his own against six guys. It wasn't long before he'd dropped the tough guy act. He cried and begged and pleaded, but a plasmid’s gotta do what a plasmid’s gotta do.

  They took him to an old apartment building. The landlord had been killed in the crossfire of a gang war shootout, and the building was abandoned. Many plasmids used it as a hideout.

  The boys took the Handi into one of the apartments on the ground floor, and strapped him down. In the bathroom of the apartment, Hector's best friend Carlos readied the syringe. It had been filled with the chemical solution; a red, vaguely luminescent liquid with explosive properties.

  Its proper name was something that Hector had trouble remembering, but the street name was bomb juice. It was a chemical substance discovered by miners on the planet Westerlund 13, in the year 2106. When exposed to organic material, it creates a chemical reaction wherein the matter it touches explodes.

  Naturally, several of the world’s superpowers had found ways to weaponize it. It had been the primary weapon in at least three major wars, before the substance was found to be unduly cruel, and banned under international law. However, as the Plasmids of New Chicago knew so well, bomb juice could still be acquired by those who wanted them. And as Carlos would say, “They make for one hell of a water balloon.”

  The Handi lay strapped on the bed, and Carlos walked over to him with the syringe.

  “Please! Please stop!” The Handi said, tears streaming down his face. Snot was coming out of his nostrils, and a dark stain began to form on his crotch. “Why are you doing this?!”

  “Boy, you would’a done the same to us if we’d gone into Handi turf.” Hector sneered.

  “No I wouldn’t! I swear to God I wouldn’t!” the redhead pleaded. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen. Not much younger than Carlos or Hector.

  “Oh stop bullshiting. You know damn well you’d have done this.”

  “Now wait a minute,” Carlos interjected. Hector could see a gleam in his friend’s green, metallic implant eyes. “Maybe he’s telling the truth.”

  Hector and the other four guys in the room stopped.

  “What?” Hector asked.

  Carlos shrugged and said, “Maybe he wouldn’t do something like this.” The boy strapped on the bed remained silent, staring up at would-be his savior with desperate, hopeful eyes.

  “You know what; I think he’s telling the truth.” Carlos said. The brightest smile began to shine on the Handi’s face. “And do you know why I say this?” An evil grin came over Carlos’ face.

  “Why?” Hector asked, returning the smile.

  “Because a Handi would be too fucking stupid to know how to use a syringe.” The room erupted in laughter, and the Handi started crying again.

  “Hold his head still.” Carlos said. One of the other gang members, a bald, dim-witted brute named Phil, clasped onto the kid’s chin and forehead. Within Phil’s massive fingers, the kid tried to thrash and turn, but it was no use. Phil’s incredible strength would not allow the Handi to move his head even an inch.

  Carlos crouched down next to the kid. He found a dark blue vein on his neck, and stuck the needle into it.

  “No! Please No!” The Handi screamed and begged until his voice was hoarse. Carlos squeezed down on the syringe, and it was quickly emptied of the glowing red liquid. He removed the syringe, and there was a snapping sound.

  “Uh-oh.” said Carlos, a look of mock concern on his face. “I think I broke the needle off in the skin.” Everyone else started laughing. “Guys, I’m serious. If we’re not able to remove the needle, it could get infected.” The Handi was crying even more, and the gang members couldn’t have been happier.

  Tears of laugher streaming down their faces, the plasmids in the apartment walked over to the other side of the room. Free from Phil’s mighty grasp, the Handi began to thrash about on the bed, fruitlessly pulling on his restraints.

  “Please! Somebody please help me!” he screamed. The others didn’t respond this time, they just kept laughing. It wasn’t like they could do anything about it anyway; the moment that stuff got in his blood stream, that was it.

  It was only a few moments before his face began to turn red. The veins on his forehead and neck began to bulge outward. His eyeballs grew bigger, and they struggled to escape their sockets. His screams continued to grow louder, until his head exploded.

  The sound was wet and the plasmids could hear loud cracks as the bones of the skull broke apart. Pieces of flesh and cartilage flew everywhere, staining the old wallpaper red and pink. The backboard of the bed was caught in the explosion, and splinters of wood sprayed about.

  Hector ducked, as a piece of brain matter flew his way. It hit Phil right in the center of his forehead, and he let out a chuckle, as he wiped it off with his hand.

  When it was all over, the gang members, now covered in what was left of the Handi’s head, surveyed their work. The kid’s head and neck had been totally obliterated, leaving nothing above the shoulders. The plasmids walked over to the bed, their feet making squishi
ng noises as their shoes stepped on the blood soaked carpet. They stood around the bed, and peered inside the hole that sat in-between his shoulders. Through it they could see the beginnings of his esophagus. Hector and the others laughed their laughs of delight and disgust that came so naturally to them.

  They left the room, not bothering to clean it up. They never cleaned up after themselves. Half the bottom floor of the hotel was filled with rooms that’d been stained with dried blood, and reeked of rotten flesh. Sometimes Hector, Carlos, and the others would joke about how long it’d be before the whole building would be covered in blood. None of them spent too much time thinking about it though; they didn’t think they’d live long enough to find out.

  After they’d killed the Handi, Hector went to one of the rooms on the upper floors, and took a shower. He wanted to look good for his date tonight.

  Emma met him in front of the movie theater. He embraced her, and kissed her. She smiled, but it was different. Usually when she saw him, she’d beam with the biggest smile. It was one of the few genuinely beautiful things that Hector had ever seen in his life. It made him feel alive to know that he could make someone that happy.

  But on this night, it seemed weaker, more forced. He asked her what was wrong.

  “Nothing.” She shook her head.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” She said. He knew she was lying, but didn’t press it. Normally, when someone was hiding something from him, he’d be very aggressive, and tell them to cut the shit. But Emma was different. He would never talk to her that way.

  They went in. Inside, they ran into Carlos. He sat in the back of the theater, where he could get a wide view of the screen. He usually went to the movies a few times a week. He'd record the movie with his cybernetic eyes, and sells copies on the street corner. It was a nice little side business and he preferred it to the armed robberies and drug dealing he and Hector usually did for the plasmids.

  Hector and Emma sat toward the front of the theater to watch the movie. It was a romantic comedy about a rich girl and poor boy that fall in love. Hector thought the whole thing was stupid (minus a few jokes here and there) but Emma loved this kind of stuff, so he put up with it. She put up with his action and horror movies, so it was only fair.

  After the movie, Carlos approached them, and offered to give Emma a free copy of the movie. She said no thanks, and they went their separate ways.

  Hector walked Emma to her home. She lived in a boarding house with three other hookers, or “Ladies of the Evening” as Emma liked to call it.

  “Did you like the movie?” Hector asked. They’d already walked halfway to her building, and she still hadn’t said a word. She was usually so talkative, and would go on and on about everything and anything for hours and hours. But tonight she was silent, and Hector was genuinely worried.

  “It was okay.” She said flatly. They walked on. Besides their footsteps echoing on the empty sidewalk, and the buzzing of the dimming streetlamps, the street was silent. Occasionally one might hear a stray cat screech, or hear the hum of an automated trash collector.

  Sometimes they could hear the smacking sound as a child was hit in the face, followed by the child’s prolonged screams, and the parent’s yelling. Whenever Hector or Emma heard such a sound, it was always one of the few times they were glad to not have parents anymore.

  Abandoned by their parents before they were born, Hector, Emma, Carlos and millions of other children were grown in artificial wombs. Upon birth, they were put into group homes or foster care. And if they were lucky, they received some kind of a good home and education. Hector himself had lived in six foster homes before he finally ran away. He found the plasmids when he was fifteen, and has been with them ever since.

  Emma was more-or-less the same. She’d been abused from a young age in almost every home she’d lived in. Then she found Madame Claudia, who gave her a home, and a job.

  Neither of their lives was perfect but it was better than what they’d had before. And in this cruel world, it was more than either of them could hope for.

  “I’m pregnant.” Emma blurted out. Hector looked at her, even more confused than he was before.

  “So what?” He asked. “You’ve been pregnant before. Just go to the clinic.”

  Emma was silent for the first few moments after Hector asked his question. She looked away from him.

  “What’s wrong with going to the clinic?” Hector asked.

  “It’s your baby.” Emma said.

  Hector stopped, and Emma stopped with him. For a few moments, they were both silent. They just stood on the street. Somewhere above them, a hover car flew over, and they could hear its rumbling engine. In a nearby alleyway, they could hear a homeless bum mumbling about giant rats and psychotic children.

  “Are you sure?” He asked, breaking the silence.

  “Yes.” Emma said.

  “Is it at all possible that-”

  “Hector, I haven’t been with anyone else but you for two months.”

  “Two months?”

  Emma shrugged. “Business has been kind of slow for a while.”

  Hector just nodded. His mind struggled to process the information.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” He didn’t quite feel like throwing up, but he did feel a little queasy. He wasn’t sure why though. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I…I thought you’d want to know.” Emma said.

  “Well, I don’t need to know.”

  “I just thought you might like to.”

  “Why, what difference does it make?”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Emma, we can’t keep it.”

  “I know but…”

  “But what?”

  “You’ve never wanted to…?”

  “No.” Hector said quickly.

  Emma’s eyes went wide. She looked away from him. He could hear her begin to sniffle. He gently took her hand.

  “I’m sorry.” He said.

  “Why do you always have to be so aggressive?” the tears still streamed down her face.

  “I’m sorry, it’s just...”

  “Just what?”

  “How could we take care of it? How would we feed it? Where would it sleep? How could we pay for baby food? Where the hell do you even buy baby food?”

  “Grocery store.” Emma said, meekly.

  “We can’t keep it.”

  “But wouldn’t it be nice to be normal?” It sounded almost like Emma was pleading. “Wouldn’t it be nice to have a family, and live together?”

  “We can’t do that, and having a kid won’t make it happen. If anything, it’ll just make things worse.”

  “But maybe….”

  “Emma, baby, we can’t.”

  She opened her mouth to say something, but stopped. She silently nodded, and began to wipe the tears from her face.

  “I mean…” Hector struggled to pick his words. “Maybe…maybe one day we’ll have the money and…and we can do it. But now…we just can’t.”

  “Okay.” Emma said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, you’re right.”

  He put his arm around her shoulders, and kissed her on the cheek. They walked the rest of the way to her building in silence. Neither of them said anything until they reached her front door.

  “I’ll go to the clinic tomorrow.” She said.

  “It’s for the best.” He said. She just nodded. He took her in his arms, and kissed her. She didn’t respond. She unlocked the door, and went inside. Hector stood on the street by himself, and felt his heart sink.

  The image of Emma’s puffy, tear-stained eyes, stuck with Hector the next morning, as he walked into Jordan’s apartment. Jordan was the leader of the New Chicago set of the Plasmids. Though members of the gang could be found throughout the United States, the Plasmids had never had any kind of central leadership to unite the various subgroups that terrorized the cities of A
merica. Each subgroup in turn had its own leader.

  The qualifications to become the leader of a subgroup were pretty straight forward; either get everyone else to like you, or fear you. Most gang leaders did a little of both, and Jordan was no exception.

  Jordan’s apartment was located on the top floor of the abandoned building where they’d performed their executions. The small room was sparsely furnished; a few chairs, a large window, a small desk, and a couch. There was no bed, TV, computer, photos on the wall, or posters. In Jordan’s world, there was nothing but the gang. And the occasional hooker.

  Hector was the first one to enter the room. Jordan stood by the window, looking out at the city. The rain water outside slid down the glass in tiny waterfalls. He had a tall glass of a dark blue liquid, and drank from it in big, slurping gulps.

  Jordan was a tall man, with a well-rounded belly, and slicked back black hair. His face was usually clean shaven, but today, Hector could see the bits of stubble on his cheeks and chin. Dark circles hung under his eyes.

  The gang leader turned around, and motioned for Hector to sit down. Hector did, and tried to mentally prepare himself for what was to come.

  Carlos came a few minutes later, his hands stained with some strange orange liquid that smelled vaguely of vinegar. He said he’d been working on something that could cause brain damage by inducing an unusually violent sneezing fit.

  Phil came next, drooling on the carpet, as he dragged in the dead cat he was playing with. Normally Jordan would’ve been furious at the sight of a dead animal being brought into his room. But today, he said nothing. Carlos and Hector looked at each together. They knew it would be bad.

  By 11:30, the room was packed with ten Plasmids; most of them about the same age as Carlos and Hector.

  “I understand that not everyone could be here.” Jordan said. “So when you leave, please make sure to tell your fellow brothers about what we talked about. Okay?”