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H
inton

E
very class needs a clown
, and Hinton fills that role perfectly. He’s always got a comeback, or remark that leaves his fellow students smiling. He literally lives to entertain. After years of watching him, I’m not affected by his humor, but everyone around him is. He distracts them with his humor.

“You girls all love that One Direction, right?”

The girl next to him rolls her eyes. “Why?”

“I know all their names.”

“You do?” she asks, perking up.

“Yep. Harry, Kermit, Jon Snow, Liam, and Spock.”

“You’re an idiot.”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “A loveable idiot, though.”

She smiles, and bites her lip in response. “Maybe.” There’s no maybe. She can’t resist his humor.

“Did you have something to share with the class?” his teacher asks.

“Nothing worth mentioning,” he replies with a smirk.

His teachers, and classmates, see him as just a fun-loving guy, but his “parents” and I know the difference. Distraction is powerful. Hinton is powerful, and even he isn’t aware of just how much that power will be tested soon.

M
ichaela

M
ichaela is the prodigy
. Our genius. She can learn anything in under sixty seconds, literally. Math, science, languages, and even though she doesn’t know it yet, weapons and warfare. Her mind is so strong that we almost lost her as a baby. Her brain had trouble processing everything. Luckily, we still had the Muse then, the one who helped us create them all. The comfort of having a biological parent nearby calmed her, allowed her brain to acclimate. It would’ve been a shame to have lost her.

Her brilliance has isolated her all her life, but she likes it that way. She prefers her studies to the humans around her. She is so insular, though, that even her teachers have become annoyed with her anti-social behavior. It’s a source of pride for them. How dare this small girl think she’s better than them?

“Michaela, are you ready for your presentation?” her English teacher asks, the glee at hurting her student shining in her eyes.

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not presenting today.”

“I told you it’s half your grade.”

“I’ll still pass the class if I fail this assignment,” she says, quietly as the teacher seethes.

She may be quiet and a loner, but she isn’t necessarily shy. She will stand up for herself, and because of that, she has never really been a victim of bullying. It’s no fun to pick on someone who doesn’t really care, and she truly doesn’t.

Emotions don’t come into play for her, which makes her the perfect killing machine. She may be more brains than brawn, but she’s also the one we can count on to pull the trigger with no remorse. We built her that way, and I can’t wait to unleash her.

I
n order to
understand what’s about to happen, I need to let you know how it started. Or at least what we told the “parents.” Let me take you back, not to tell you, but to show you what it was like. Go into my mind as I gave ten people their dreams, and also their worst nightmares.

S
eventeen years
ago

I walk into the room, feeling like God, because right now, I am. I’m giving the gift of life to these five couples. Couples who want a child more than they want their next breath. They have tried anything, and everything to conceive, with no success. No one else has been able to give them what they want, what they need, but today I will offer it to them. There will be conditions, of course. I have no doubt they’ll agree to the terms. Having a child for a potentially small amount of time is better than not having one at all.

“Thank you all for coming today,” I tell them, looking out at their hopeful faces.

“You’ve been selected to participate in something monumental. This project has the potential to one day save us all.”

“Change the world? We thought this was a fertility trial,” one of the woman says, and I see them all nod in agreement.

“In a sense, it is. We are prepared to let you borrow a child. It could be for a year, or it could be for a lifetime.”

“What? Borrow? We don’t want to borrow a child!” One of the men exclaims.

I couldn’t tell you his name right now, because I don’t really care. I know all their names, but I don’t know who’s who. The children are all that matters. Yes, I need to get these people to agree to participate, but I don’t have to care about them. I’ll match faces to names once they sign the contracts.

“You have had no success conceiving a child—or in some of your cases—carrying a child to term. I know those tests and procedures have depleted all of your finances to the point that surrogacy and adoption are not options for you now, either. What the U.S. Government is proposing is a way for you to have the child you want. With conditions.”

“What are the conditions?” one of the women asks.

I look her in the eye, and then make eye contact with everyone else in this room. “What I am going to tell you can never leave this room. If your repeat what I tell you, you will be killed. The safety of our country demands it.”

I let that sink in, and wait to see if any of them run for the door. I don’t really expect them to, and I’m not wrong. They’re desperate, which is exactly the way I need them to be. It’ll be easier to manipulate them this way.

“There will come a time in the future when our country will be under siege. We don’t know when this will occur, but we need to be prepared. Our scientists have spliced DNA, and other genes, creating perfect specimens, perfect geniuses and soldiers.

“The children we’re creating will be brilliant, persuasive, athletic, entertaining, and charming. Beside the gene splicing from the DNA, we have also created something special. We will be conditioning them with deductive skills from all the great fictional detectives. Our scientists have used artificial intelligence to create a program that will allow them to learn while sleeping, as well as while they’re awake.

“Three times a week, starting when they are born, you will bring them here to be conditioned. Every night, you will use a word we give you that will put them to sleep, and then you will hook them up to a small device that will impart knowledge into their brains. They will not remember this, and you will never tell them. When the time comes, and they are needed, you will use other words to activate them. They could be a toddler, or they could be an adult when this happens, but it
will
happen. You must be prepared for it.”

“What if someone says the words to them, and they’re ‘activated’ early?” another man asks.

“We will be monitoring them—and you—every minute of the day. There are two words for each child, and they have to be said together, in a specific sentence. We will put a stop to anyone else saying the full sentence to them. I don’t anticipate it happening, but we have safeguards in place, in the event that it does.”

“You said you might put them into service as toddlers?” the first woman asks, a look of horror on her face.

“These will not be normal toddlers. They are being genetically engineered to be a combination of the greatest minds, and the greatest soldiers that have ever been born.”

“When can my baby come home with me?” asks the youngest woman here with a smile on her face.

“Exactly nine months from when you sign these papers,” I tell her, holding up one of the packets.

They all stand up and move towards me. I force my smile to seem friendly, and not as predatory as I feel. None of them know exactly what’s in store for them. I told them what I needed them to know, and nothing more. If they read the contracts, they’ll know the rest, but I don’t think any of them will stop to do that. They’re desperate for a child, so desperate that they’ll do anything. Which is what I was counting on.

P
resent Day

The five have one class, and one class only, together. I’ve made sure it’s never been more than one. Although they should have no knowledge of being related, I couldn’t take a chance that they wouldn’t recognize something in each other. That’s why I gave them such distinct, almost stereotypical, personalities. Other than Abigail and Coalton, there’s no reason for any of them to interact much with each other. We conditioned the two of them to have a mistrust of each other, so there’s no chance of a problem with them. We could’ve conditioned everyone else, too, but it was more fun to see nature take its course with the cliques and clashes of a normal teenage life taking over.

Today, in this English class, the foundation for their coming together is being laid. As their teacher outlines their new assignment, I smile, knowing this all my idea.

“You will all need to ask your parents who their favorite mystery or thriller author is, and then read a book by that author, and write about the traits of the main character,” Mrs. Fitz tells them.

“What if they don’t like mystery books?” Abigail asks.

“You won’t know until you ask.”

“Someone’s cranky today,” Coalton says.

“How many times have you been to the dean’s office this week? Because I’d love to send you there again.”

“We won’t know if they have a favorite until we ask,” Sabrina says, and no one else speaks up after that.

Coalton wasn’t wrong—his teacher is cranky. She didn’t like having her normal lesson plan upset for this, but she was given no choice. There’s no stopping what’s been put in motion. I watch them all through the rest of the day, but nothing eventful occurs. It’s when they get home that the fun begins.

H
inton

Hinton gets home first since he has no after-school activities. “Mom, who’s your favorite mystery writer?”

His mother drops the glass of milk and plate of cookies she was carrying to him. They crash to the floor as she looks at him in horror. He rushes forward, but she puts up her hand. “My favorite mystery author is Agatha Christie.”

He startles, and then his smile is gone. “I’m ready,” he says, walking past her like she’s not there. She starts to cry as he climbs the stairs. Her fun-loving boy is gone forever, and it will only get worse for her from here on out.

S
abrina

Sabrina is next. She gets home at the same time as her father. They smile at each other as they walk inside, and greet her mother.

“Oh, hey. We have this new English assignment. Do either of you read mystery books? Or have you? I’ve never seen any around, but we’re supposed to ask.”

Her parents look at each other, and then her father speaks. “I do. My favorite mystery author is Robert Ludlum.”

Like Hinton, she bounces a little on her feet as the trigger does its job. “I’m ready,” she says, walking to her room. Sabrina’s parents don’t cry, because they don’t know yet just what they’ve lot. They’ll realize soon enough.

M
ichaela

When Michaela walks into her house, the first thing she notices is that her mother has been crying. Her father has his arm around her, and Michaela rushes over to the two of them.

“What’s wrong?”

“We just got some bad news today.”

Ah. I haven’t been watching the home feeds. The parents have apparently started talking to each other. Not against the rules, and not entirely surprising either. Just makes this a little less fun for me as I know the remaining three couples won’t be as shocked as the first two.

“What is it? What’s the news?” Michaela looks so concerned, and now I know this will indeed be entertaining.

“It’s nothing we can’t handle.” They’re so very wrong.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Now tell us about school,” her mother says. Brave woman right there.

“It was pretty good. I have an assignment for English class I need to ask you about. Do either of you have a favorite mystery author?”

“Yes,” her father says. “My favorite mystery author is Ian Fleming.”

As with the others, Michaela has the same reaction. As she walks away, her parents don’t crumple. I can see in their eyes that they’re devastated, but they stand tall, holding hands as they watch her walk away. They’ll need each other in the coming months.

C
oalton

Coalton has dinner with his friends at a local fast food place before heading home. His father is pretending to watch TV when he comes in the front door. It would be out of character for him to get up and greet his son, so he stays frozen where he is, waiting for the proverbial ax to fall.

“Hey dad. We have this stupid English assignment. You don’t read mystery books, do you?”

“I used to,” he says, and I can hear the controlled rage in his voice. “Before your mother died.”

He’s going off script, and if he doesn’t play his part, his fate will be the same as his wife’s. I’m not sure he cares about his life. I certainly don’t. He does care about his son, though, so I’m not too worried yet.

“Oh, I’m sorry to bring it up,” Coalton tells him, sounded sad. This will not do at all.

“I’m not going to tell you my favorite author, because I think you should hear your mother’s instead. If she was here, she would say ‘my favorite mystery author is Carolyn Keene.’”

Smart man. He played his part exactly as told. He’ll live to see another day. He may not want to live much longer than that, but I may just keep him alive for fun.

A
bigail

Abigail is the last one home. She was shopping with her friends until the mall closed. Her parents are in the kitchen, sharing a pot of coffee and pretending this is just another day. Or I should say, trying to pretend. They’re failing miserably, but none of that will matter in a few minutes.

“Coffee? It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?” Abigail asks them with a touch of concern in her voice.

“We had some things to talk over. How was shopping?” her father asks.

She looks down at her bags and smiles. “Well, you don’t have to take out a second mortgage, but I got some nice things.”

Her parents try to chuckle, but manage only sad smiles. They have plenty of money.

All five families do; although, some were warned to keep that more quiet than others. Abigail’s family had been allowed to show their wealth, and she’s enjoyed every moment of that for her entire life.

“I’m going to head up to bed,” she tells them when they don’t say anything else.

“Goodnight,” her mother tells her, sounding relived.

Wait for it…

“Oh, I almost forgot to ask you if you have a favorite mystery author.”

Neither one answers, and I’m gripping the desk in front of me so tightly my knuckles are turning white.

“Hello, anyone? No?”

I
will
kill these two if they don’t answer in the next sixty seconds.

“My favorite mystery author is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,” her mother says, looking towards the ceiling for help. Abigail immediately reacts.

“I’m ready.” Yes, she is.