The Uterine Trap
Leah's Chanel tweed suit is creased by the bed restraints as she stares at the holographic projection on the ceiling - the six-week-old embryo giving the middle finger to the camera. The air of this private clinic, tucked away in the basement of the Hermès flagship store on Fifth Avenue, floats with the scent of N°5 mixed with tranquilizers, but it can't drown out the shrill alarms of the fetal heart monitor.
"The fetus carries an Iris genetic marker that is identical to the core encrypted sequence of the Graham Gene Bank." The personal physician removed his rubber gloves, the pupils behind the Gucci frames flashing mechanical red. Leah's platinum bag suddenly vibrated, and when she fumbled with the pregnancy test, the amniocentesis data field was refreshing itself--Lucas's sperm quality test, done two months earlier at the prison, had come back as "absolutely infertile."
The UV lights in the clinic suddenly came on. Leah is horrified to find fluorescent lines surfacing on the skin of her belly; those iris stems wrapping around her uterus are the very DNA recombination profiles Emma left behind at the fire. As she tried to ring the emergency call bell, the diamond-encrusted manicure suddenly overcharged, turning the clinic bed into a torture chair.
"Here are the tranquilizers for your appointment." The nurse wheeled in a treatment cart with three tubes of fluorescent blue liquid stuck in the test tube rack. Leah recognized it as a gene-editing potion developed by Lucas Labs, and the bottle numbers corresponded to strains of the plague virus manipulated by the Graham Group. Deadliest of all was the label's handwritten note: "Recommended to be taken mixed with champagne for better taste -- Sincerely, Emma W."
The holographic projection of the embryo suddenly opened its eyes. Inside those unformed pupils, blockchain keys are generating quantum cloud ciphers. Leah frantically ripped out the monitor wires, only to discover that each electrode was connected to a Darknet server -- the fetus's brainwaves were being compiled into financial attack code and transmitted in real time to the mainframe of the New York Stock Exchange.
"Fetal heartbeat synchronized to fluctuations in the Dow Jones." The doctor suddenly broadcast in an electronic synthesized voice. Leah's cervical monitor lit up red, and the frequency of contractions actually matched the Graham Group stock crash curve perfectly. She grabbed the scalpel and slashed at the small of her back, but the blade melted into liquid metal the moment it touched her skin, seeping into her pores and reorganizing itself into a subcutaneous tracker.
The clinic blast doors blasted open. Thirty white coats in iris masks pushed their way in with gene-editing pods, and the leader lifted his mask -- it was Lucas, who was supposed to be in prison. He stroked Leah's bulging belly as a microphone implanted under the skin sent sound waves directly to the uterus: "My dear, our child will be the perfect vehicle for the Human Removal Program."
Leah's amniotic fluid suddenly boiled. Nanobots poured out of the test tube holder and flooded down the cervical canal into the fetal retina. In the hysteroscopic surveillance image, the baby's optic nerve is being transformed into a fiber optic cable, and the pupil iris emerges as a 3D structural map of a Swiss bank vault. Even more terrifying was the signal from the fetus's pacemaker -- synchronized with the countdown to the nuclear bomb Lucas had hidden in his Manhattan apartment.
"Surprise?" Emma's voice came through the exhaust system. The clinic suddenly switched to ultraviolet mode, and Leah's veins appeared as glowing zonules under her skin. It was then that she was shocked to realize that every pregnancy vomit was a memory-wiping program kicking in, and that those knocked-out birth control pills were really stabilizers to preserve the fetus's sinful genes.
When the FBI breaks down the door, Leah is plucking at her uterus with a letter opener. But the blade of the knife is caught in the jaws of the fetus's mechanical arm -- a monster that combines the sins of three generations and wraps the umbilical cord around her carotid artery. The agents' bullets vaporize the moment they make contact with the pregnant belly, and the clinic radio blares Emma's laughter, "Life always finds a way to pass on its sins."
Three months later, Leah stroked her stretch marks in the holding cell. Those seemingly ordinary silver lines are actually maps of New York's underground pipe network drawn with radioactive paint. Fetal movements suddenly become regular, and to her horror, she realizes that Morse code is coming from her belly -- the very same prison duty roster from the day of Lucas' escape.
On the night of labor, the surgical lights burst in a rainstorm. The baby's cries activated the entire East Coast power grid as Leah chewed through the pain pump catheter. The moment the newborn, whose pupils flashed Bitcoin keys, was carried away by thirty clone nurses, Leah's cell phone received a congratulatory message from Emma: "His first mommy sound will be the decryption command for the black box of your parents' car accident."
And right now in the core server room of the Gene Bank, Lucas' DNA sequence is being deleted in bulk. Replacing his biological information is the ultimate code deciphered from the fetal cry -- a set of death instructions encrypted with the growth cycle of the iris flower, being frantically replicated in IVF databases around the world.