It is in the sterilization of failure, and not in the selection of successes for breeding, that the possibility of an improvement of the human stock lies. – H. G. Wells
The promenade surrounding the circular lake led away from the gray mass in the lake and up to the entrance of a towering, rectangular and white building. No signs displayed the name of this department, but as always a gigantic eye was clearly displayed on each side of the building. The eye was simplistic and etched with the regulatory contrast color to the surface beneath. In this case the eye matched the color of tar.
On the 21<sup>st</sup> floor of the building, a despondent middle-aged man looked at a new batch of Sectorian offspring. His nameplate read “Dr. Livstrade.” Their efforts to increase the success rate of the incubation hadn’t borne fruit. The issues had started 20 years ago, but they had never seemed as real as they did today. This batch had been his final chance, and their failure meant that his replacement was set in stone. He shuddered as he thought back to the fate of Dr. Johnson and Parson. His superiors had been great sources of inspiration for Livstrade when he began as a junior Sectorian birth-rate analyst. He would share in their fate if he didn’t act first.
The issues with the Sectorian incubation rate had only worsened over time. Even increasing the mandatory donations to once a month didn’t seem to help. This increase should in theory allow his department to have a surplus of Sectorian offspring. Despite the vast number of eggs and sperm donated, the success rate of successful incubation had turned from 85% to 49% over 20 years. An annual decrease averaging 1.8% had seemed manageable the first decade. The at first subtle collective anxiety within the department had soon turned into desperation as the anticipated increase in productivity never came. This batch had been incubating for only a single month, but the failure of the yield had already gone over the estimated 49% the last 10 yields had averaged. The Eye’s patience had already run thin, so there would be no second chances. Why had he allowed his ego to declare that an increase in yield was eminent…? His plans couldn’t come into fruition yet. He needed more time than he could bargain for, but he could think of no way to gain it. He had been living on borrowed time for months, but the abhorrent failure of this newest batch would mean his doom.
On the level below Livstrade’s window, a dozen people wearing air-filtration masks and white overalls were shuttling back and forth between different stations. The emblems of tar eyes splashed on both sides of the white cloth stood out on the otherwise drab clothes. The different stations consisted of many clusters of clear plastic incubators. Each incubator contained an embryo surrounded by artificial amniotic fluid. If any individual incubator flashed with a red light, one of the shuttling people would divert to this location, separate the incubator from its incoming tube, and then throw the failure into the nearest automatic cart. The cart would take it from there and dispose of the waste.
The original 300.000 embryos had already turned into 146.867. Failure after the first month of incubation became increasingly rare, but Livstrade had estimated that an additional 5-10 thousand failures was likely. Such numbers were inexcusable to the high echelon of the Eye. He had already registered the current numbers of embryo failure, so all he could do was wait. Trying to withhold information or lie would only make his fate far worse. There was no withholding information from The Eye. An itch had formed on the back of his left hand, which he soothed with a gentle scratching.
The call came as he had expected, albeit sooner than usual. A crisp woman’s voice seemed to manifest inside Livstrade’s head through the Eye’s implemented communication and surveillance chip, “You have disappointed Us for the last time doctor. Doctor Sinclaire will take your place as the head of the Department of Reproduction Biology in the Ministry of Genetic engineering. The Eye relieves you of all responsibilities effective immediately. Furthermore, you will stand trial before the council of the Eye tomorrow morning at 08.00. Ensure you leave all equipment, instruments, as well as research data and notes, intact for your successor and exit the Ministry of Genetic engineering alongside any non-research based personal belongings. You may not speak to anyone until you have stood trial before Us. Dismissed.”
Livstrade had been listening with such an exerted effort that the sudden cut-off startled him. His breath heaved as he attempted to regain a semblance of clarity and focus. It felt as though his heart forced its way out through his chest while stuffing his throat with glass shards. He heaved again and broke into a coughing fit. The Eye’s statements had forged an unbreakable stranglehold on his throat.
His normally perfect hair had turned into a wild chaos, while three buttons on his lab-coat were ripped off during his attempt to regain his breath. Livstrade had spent his entire life to shape The Eye’s perception of him as a loyal servant. Despite his fervent loyalty he had still been thrown out of his own department with a single statement. It didn’t matter to The Eye that the consensus among his researchers were that the current failure of the Reproduction department was linked to the decline in quality of donations. Livstrade never expected more from The Eye, but experiencing the expulsion made it settle in as fact. There was no possibility of getting another chance at this point. In history there had never been a case in which the person summoned to stand trial before the council was heard from again. Was there even a point to standing trial before a jury who in reality had already ordered ones’ execution?The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
Livstrade’s heart and spirit wavered as he ruminated on the nature of his role in this, as well as on the possibilities ahead. Anyone presenting themselves to the Eye would lay their being bare. To place the full control on their lives in the hands of the Eye to judge ones perceived flaws or mistakes didn’t seem very appealing. Running away was not an option either. The walls of the Eye would be impossible to surmount, and the possibility of living under the radar of the Eye itself seemed laughable. No one could hide from the Eye. That was its purpose after all – to observe and know all. No, that would prolong the inevitable and make his punishment far worse. Except submitting to the will of the Eye, which would assume his guilt even if there was none, there was only one option available to him. Livstrade loosened his tie, having already made up his mind but still only tentatively accepting the idea his unconsciousness had already accepted.
A while later, a short woman with long, flowing, dark hair took in the facilities of the Department of Reproduction Biology while considering her new task. The nametag on her new, white uniform read “Dr. Sinclaire.” She already wished herself back in her navy-blue uniform. The design was the same, but she found the white color too pale on her already light skin. The clacking of her monotonous steps echoed through empty hallways and various unoccupied offices. Increasing the yield of Sectorians would be an insurmountable task. There was no certainty of success even if they employed desperate measures.
Dr. Livstrade had been deposed and would soon be put on trial for his shortcomings. Was this a fate they would share, or would she be able to achieve any progress with her new position? Her mind was racing with uncertainty, anxiety and fear. A stubborn determination was hiding beneath her angst. She wouldn’t have accepted her position without question if she didn’t have a mentality which sought success even in impossible situations. She would do her best no matter how hopeless it was. The uniform white walls and duplicated interior design flowed by. She made her way to her through this intricate maze of offices, laboratories, and testing rooms to her new office. Sinclaire initiated a conversation with all members of the Department she could get a hold of to assess the state of the current batch and any hopeful design or methods which could increase their yield. None of the responses inspired confidence in the project. This somewhat dampened her determination, but she still continued toward her assigned office. It used to be Livstrade’s office, but now it was hers.
Sinclaire pulled her hair back into a ponytail and adjusted her glasses. She couldn’t stall forever. When she arrived at the elevator which would take her up to her new office, she pressed the arrow pointing upward without allowing her hesitancy room to grow. A soft mechanism could be heard activating as the elevator descended. With a thud the elevator stopped, and its doors unfurled to reveal an uninspired blank interior which matched the surrounding simplistic environment. Sinclaire stepped into the elevator and pressed the button indicating the 21<sup>st</sup> level of the Department.
The elevator arrived quickly, but the time inside the elevator itself seemed to extend. While she was caught in a reverie, a soft ping alerted her to her arriving at her destination. This was the decisive moment. How screwed was, would be determined by whatever documents, research, findings, and projections awaited her in her new glorified prison-cell. For the next year she would likely have to spend more than 80% of her time within the confines of an 8x8m rectangular office with a single un-reclinable chair bolted down too far from the desk to be comfortable for her smaller than average physical stature. No matter the position, all government research offices were identical. Her mind was into the swirl of numbers and data she expected. This swirl formed crimson chains around her so as to keep her locked safely away. She now had the job of five regular Department researchers as well as additional administrative work and responsibility.
The white door to her new office swung open as she pressed it. A dangling leg hit her left arm as she entered the room, and when she looked up all she could see was two blood-shot eyes laying the foundation for an unquenchable desperate desire for rebellion within her. The body enveloping the eyes seemed irrelevant in comparison to the intensity of the gaze of the dead man. He seemed to beg her to take fate into her own hands to avoid sharing in his. The notion that he would rather die than submit to the judgement of the Eye was invigorating. Following the feeling of invigoration, a feeling of instinctual revulsion at herself for sympathizing with Livstrade and his defiance of the Eye rose up in her. What resistance could there be to The Eye? In any case, there was work to be done and no one would do it but her.
Sinclaire brushed past the dangling eyes connected to a lifeless thing with a shudder and sat down in the chair which was too far from the desk to be comfortable. She ignored the pain of a protrusion in the back of the chair digging into her spine while pouring over the documents strewn around like discarded drafts. She delved into the research. Her left leg shook as she tried suppressing the desire to allow her eyes to wander back to the limp man still hanging in the room with her.