Hidden Agendas

Hidden Agendas

Emma dragged her eyes away. She always tried hard not to meet the head-on gaze of her sister, but try as she might she always found herself stealing surreptitious glances.

In line with their biology, they were as close as could be, shared the same tastes in clothes, books and comedy, had a laugh and got on great. They even had the same jobs, working in the same office.

And yet, their strikingly dissimilar appearances forced a wedge of alienating distance between them. At most this expressed itself as pity. A self-pitying melancholy that they would never be best friends, and an overriding condolence for Annie's plight.

“It's so sad,” she thought, but Emma always kept her thoughts to herself.

___

The conference table at NextGEN stretched away into the haze of sunlight that obscured the far end of the boardroom. The aggressive chants of a demonstration march being held in front of the building resounded off the heavy steel blinds that did much to muffle the disturbance.

Consequently, the meeting proceeded without hitch. In any case, all those involved were more than used to the incessant attacks on the business and the myriad of failed lawsuits claiming unethical practice.

Swaddled within the shadows at the dark end of the boardroom, the CEO unfurled her face from the cradle made by her hands. She had enjoyed the presentation. She enjoyed every aspect of her business, the people she had surrounded herself with and most of all her company's unchallenged reputation for delivering the best quality products, at affordable prices. Her personal fortune was a turn on too.

“Thanks to Coercion & Advertising there for that stimulating talk,” she said. “ I like what you're doing with your subliminal stuff. Very imaginative indeed, and it's got huge cost-cutting potentials for our

future product launches. If we can smuggle hidden messages into our gene ranges, these will be an actual uncensurable part of the person's thoughts, and the need for conventional advertising will be almost nil.”

A ripple of appreciation Mexican-waved its way clockwise around the table. The CEO waited until it had run its course before continuing.

“Now, onto other matters.” She drew herself up to her full seated height. “For some time now, I have been concerned about the price point on FTO. Our profit margin is still too small and I just don't think that we're making enough of it.”

“Well Chief, it's difficult. Obesity just isn't as popular as it used to be,” offered the 'pinstripe' immediately to her left. He withered immediately under her stare, having realised the lameness of his excuse.

“But that's just down to Publicity & Marketing,” blurted a voice from halfway down the table.

The CEO was always on the lookout for opportunities to foster collaboration between her departments. “True. Okay, you have a word with them, see what they can do. Also, have a word with the MetLAB lot. See if they can't turn down fat burning efficiency. And get them to turn up gluttony while they're at it. They'll know what to tweak.”

Damn, she was feeling sharp. 'Added-value' could be her middle name. It was such moments of corporate genius that had allowed her to almost single-handedly transform the industry. Her and wily manipulation of public opinion, that is.

And what's wrong with that? People couldn't be trusted to make good entrepreneurial decisions. Or rather, people couldn't be allowed to mess up profitable enterprise. Plus there was the 'common good' to consider.

Look at the collapse of Genetic Counselling, for example. The intention had been commercially sound, the business potential excellent. But the plebs had ruined it. They were allowed too much

bastard autonomy; that had been the main problem.

Look at Nondirectiveness. What was the definition in her old text-book? 'The process by which genetic counsellors advise clients toward a certain test or outcome, particularly related to child-bearing issues, without pressure or coercion'. Sod that. It hadn't worked in the slightest. It got dropped as soon as it became apparent that people were neither qualified to decide on technical genetic issues, nor could they cope with having to do so. Why even pretend to allow people free-will if they can't handle it?

In any case, the risks for the collective gene pool were too great. Bio-political pressure had to be exerted and that's where she had made her trillions, by trading in the genetics that other companies were running scared of. If those other lightweights didn't have the balls for no-noes like Culprit Chromosomes, then she most certainly did. Hard-nosed business was in her blood. Her parent had made sure of that.

A warm glow of self-satisfaction spread almost to her extremities, but died en route, amongst the necrotic senescing tissues, long before it could get there.

“On a brighter note, let's look at our hot-picks. What's the Du Pont on Alzheimer's for this quarter?”

“We reached an all-time high Return On Investment, boss.”

“Great work guys. There'll definitely be big fat festive bonuses for you this year.”

___

The sensor triggered the Tannoy when the couple passed through the door, “Welcome to the NextGEN Human Reproduction Clinic,” it announced, swathed in plinky Muzak. “NextGEN: Empowering the Next Generation,” segued a female voice, cheery and bright.

“It's also the coupon dividend competitively priced thing to do,” chimed the receptionist pointing to

the poster behind her. It read, “Summer Bonanza on deleterious genes! 10% off.”

“We'd like to choose our babies please,” said the man. The woman hovered coyly beyond his left shoulder.

“I'd guess this is your first time as Parental Selectors?”

The couple nodded.

“Please fill in this form and take a seat over there. And please don't worry. There's really nothing to worry about,” beamed the receptionist.

They took a form each and followed her smile over to the seating area. Once settled, they pawed over the first few pages of the form before being distracted by each other.

“Are you ... er ... do you ... um ... have a partner doing this with you?”

“What! No chance. Why would I do that? Are you crazy”

“Of course. Sorry ... me too. So, what do you think you're going to go for then?”

“I was thinking of a Creative. Or an Athletic.”

“Mine's going to be an Academic”

“Oh. Really? So, have you decided ... you know ... what to call it yet?”

“Yes, a Pharmacogenomicist.”

“Oh yes. That'll be nice.”

A TV program showing on a screen that dominated the wall at the far end of the clinic filled the

pregnant pauses in their chat. The Natural History Channel was showing repeats of the popular entrylevel “Life in Old Blood.” The breathy narrator was windily describing the sale of mining rights for the Moon to a prospecting company who wanted to exploit ilmenite-rich locations to fuel its blueprinted oxygen extraction processing plant. Natural oxygen had become something of a limited luxury on Earth, and a premium was paid for a reliable synthetic supply. Being a lot lighter and less bulky than rocks, the lunar oxygen was to be stored in supertankers and shipped back to Earth. It was estimated that the highest grade, pure and uncut MOXYGEN©, as it was to be trademarked, was going to fetch up to thirty times the street prices of Earth brands.

The woman turned back to the man. “Must have been hard in the old days,” she said, wincing at the thought. “I mean, before they gave us Hyper-Haemoglobin©®.”

A slightly pained expression also crossed the man's face, accentuating the wrinkles and squashing the ridges together, until the furrows looked like a freshly ploughed field. “I never really understood how that cleaned up the atmosphere.”

“It didn't.” An underlying coo gave her voice a soothing tone. “Substituting Tube Worm genes just made our blood more efficient at carrying oxygen in our atmosphere, what with it all messed up with pollution. Like all them sulphides.”

The man seemed satisfied by her explanation. Or, at least, he didn't seem to want to pursue the subject any further. “Are you getting any enhancements fitted?”

“Oh, yes. Well you've got to, don't you. Wouldn't be fair not to. That's what I think.”

“But what about the side effects?,” he asked while signing quotation marks with stubby, bent fingers. “Society doesn't exactly look kindly on Relatives suffering from adverse side-effects,” he sneered, laying aside his walking stick to repeat his air quotes while letting out a derisive snort.

“Oh, I know. I mean just look at them in churcherapy. Sniffling and a-wailing all the bleedin' time. Most off putting it is. I don't know why such a vulgar display's allowed. You'd think they'd have the

decency to ....” She suddenly stopped short. It hadn't occurred to her that her fellow interlocutor might be one of them. Sometimes it's so hard to tell. “Oh, I'm very sorry. I didn't think.”

“Don't be. It's alright.” He reassured her with a slight touch to her elbow.

“It doesn't happen to everyone, and anyway it's nowhere near as important as success,” he said slowly, paced, looking her determinedly in the eye.

“You've got to beat the rest. That's why I'm here: to make sure that my kids get a head-start in life. After all, I would be being genetically selfish if I didn't. I did great, had a great career. Made a lot of money, and I mean a heap of money. Great house, meaningful sex, love, and all the other things that money can buy you. Here I am, retired at twenty-two, having led a fulfilling and satisfying life. I just want my kids to have it as good as me. I honestly believe that if I don't do it this way, I'm gonna be limiting their potential genetics.”

His speech seemed to drain him. He slumped back into his chair, panting lightly.

She mulled this through pursed lips for a moment then gambled, “Don't you mean genetic potential?”

“Nope. Not at all.” ___

“Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, ... SURPRISE!” A hoard of well-wishing office mates surged through the canteen door. Ahead of them one of the catering staff proudly carried a threetiered sponge cake; as proud as an Olympic flag bearer. The hubbub was rent by a raucous shout from the rear, “How many is it now then, eh, eh?”

Cupping their mouths to project their voices, Emma and Annie simultaneously answered, “twentyfour.” Their innate sibling synchronicity still brought them great pleasure. The unrecognisably identical twins looked each other in the eye and laughed.

But meeting Annie's gaze had the inevitable effect on Emma that she constantly fought to avoid. She burst into tears. The reason was obvious to everyone there. Emma would be wondering whether this would be the last birthday that they would share. Annie's premature ageing was now chronic.

A more subdued air took over the celebration. The same questioner now spoke gently with less confidence, “Annie. When is your next treatment session?”

“Not until the end of the month. They're hoping to carry out some Epigenetic Surgery to correct my high levels of DNA Methylation. That's what's causing this rapid ageing.”

“Do you mind if I ask how this happened to you Annie?”

“No, I don't mind. When our Parental Selector chose our genomes at the NextGEN clinic, no one knew enough about epigenetics, and we certainly hadn't sequenced the epigenetic code by then, so it wasn't possible to predict these side effects”.

“But, I mean, what is actually happening to you?”

“Well, they're still working on the Human Epigenomic Project, so we won't know for sure until they've finished. And that's going to be way too late for me and a lot of other Relatives.”

A new angry strength erupted into her voice. “What is clear is that off-the-shelf genomes can't be manufactured by just sticking a whole load of genes together. There's more to it than that. There's more to us than that ... .”

Annie's voice cracked, the words splintering at the back of her throat before dissipating into a whisper. She paused to collect herself, a tear slowly crawled the start of its journey down her cheek before darting off into the labyrinth of creases and wrinkles that formed her face. She dabbed at her eyes with the corner of an embroidered lace handkerchief.

A few moments later she was able to continue, “Meanwhile, NextGEN are just going to carry on regardless. There are a few small pressure groups, but they've got no real influence.”

“But can't anybody stop them?”

Annie returned her gaze from a distant, imagined horizon. “No,” she said, looking defeated, shoulders sagging, “I don't think they can.”