Tool
Sometimes I wonder why our species takes so long to be born.
Eggs are resilient. A firm shell, covered by a scaly surface, protects them while, inside, the embryo slowly develops. Over time, the structure weakens just enough to allow the creature to break it open on its own.
It's an admirable balance between protection and release. But in this case, I have made sure everything is under control. From the moment that egg came out of me, I monitored every one of its vital signs. I injected proteins periodically, kept its development environment stable, and prevented any interference that could alter its growth.
I could have accelerated the process. I had the means. But I wanted a clean being, free of external variables. A specimen shaped only by my will.
I say all this while observing the egg I have devoted so much effort to. Instinct whispers from some deep corner—that maternal impulse my body tries to impose. I acknowledge it… but I do not follow it. I can't afford that luxury.
It has been a year and six months since fertilization. The creature should be ready. And right now, I begin to see the inevitable: the shell is cracking. For some, this would be a miracle. For me, it is only the result of a long chain of calculations, of evolutionary coincidences, of errors coded into our DNA that have survived thanks to statistics, not design.
A small arm breaks through the shell. Its scales are red, small, clean. Chubby fingers, with white, blunt claws, reach out into the air. Then the legs—wide and clumsy—struggle to get free. It does everything it can to stand upright.
My body wants to laugh. It wants to soften at the absurd image of an egg with limbs sticking out. But that would be giving in. That would be allowing impulses that have no place in science.
I call my husband. Hegar arrives running, his eyes sparkling. For him, this is his son. His joy is genuine, although I don't fully understand what moral narrative he has constructed in his mind to justify what we are about to do.
Finally, the head breaks through the shell. A crown of scales rests upon its still-wet brow. It's a little large for the rest of its body, but it already takes its first steps toward me. Hegar tries to call his attention, but it's I who takes the final step.
I finish removing the fragments of shell, disconnect the monitoring cables, and extract the feeding tube. Then I take him in my arms.
"Kirch…" I whisper.
"Isn't it magnificent to finally see him? In person, not through screens," says Hegar, with an emotion that almost feels contagious.
"Yes. But the sooner we get to work, the better," I reply coldly, carrying the newborn to one of the acclimatization capsules.
"Good point. After all, it's for his own good," he says with a smile so distorted by happiness that for a moment I wonder if I married a sociopath. Though I'm hardly one to judge.
I place Kirch inside the capsule, attaching the nodes along his small body. Hegar is already at the terminal, entering the preliminary activation code. I know the acclimatization will be painful—like a deep sting. He will cry. He will cry now, and later too, when his body begins to adapt to what we are about to do to him.
I close the glass hatch. Kirch looks at me from the other side, placing his palms on the window, his blue eyes shining with a mixture of curiosity and need. He wants something from me—a signal, a gesture. Maybe just affection.
I look at Hegar and nod silently before locking the chamber.
The capsule begins to fill with liquid.
I sit beside the console, glancing up from time to time. I see him floating, confused, his legs suspended, eyes wide open, searching for a fixed point. The screen reads 60% fill. Vital signs stable, though his heart is pounding.
80%. I hear the vibration of his voice. I look back at the capsule: his mouth aiming toward the last bit of air, wide open, eyes shut under the viscous liquid surrounding him. 90%. Then 95%. And finally 100%.
Then—silence.
Kirch floats, his eyes closed, vitals stable but agitated, his lungs slowly emptying of air. This is the critical point. He either breathes… or dies.
And he breathes. The liquid enters his airways, fills his lungs. His small body assimilates it faster than I expected. It's working.
"Looks like the acclimatization is effective," I say neutrally, glancing at Hegar, who stands beside me. Tears slide between his scales, yet his face shows nothing but satisfaction—a twisted, incomprehensible happiness.
"That's right… Our son will be strong. He'll be able to endure anything," he replies.
"Remember, we can only publish our studies if everything goes well. The advancement of our society takes priority."
"Yes, whatever you say, dear." He calls me "dear" whenever he disagrees with me—it's one of his little tics, maybe unconscious. But it doesn't matter. He knows that if he leaks anything ahead of time, we'll likely be imprisoned, Kirch will be taken from us, and everything we've worked for will be destroyed.
I take one last look at the capsule. Kirch floats calmly, the nodes firmly adhered to his skin, the monitors displaying brain activity in an unconscious state. I stand.
"I'm going to log the data," I say, not waiting for a response.
It's time to write down what we've learned so far.
Birthday
It was on his third birthday that I finally decided to attend one of the parties my husband organized for him.
His "friends"? Toy robots built by Hegar, designed to entertain him, to fill the space that a child normally shares with others his age. All with the goal of keeping his psychological state as stable as possible.
He may still understand little, his thoughts may not yet fully grasp what happens around him, but even so, keeping his mind balanced makes the results easier to replicate.
When Kirch saw me, he immediately lifted his head and clumsily stood up. He ran toward me, pushing aside two of his mechanical guests, who fell with a soft metallic squeak. He wrapped his small arms around me and hugged me with a strength that unsettled me more than I cared to admit.
"What did you tell him?" I looked at Hegar with a frown, trying to hide the unease in my voice.
"That his dear and beautiful mother was taking time out from her work to celebrate with him," he answered, smiling with that almost genuine expression that always leaves me uneasy.
"Dear"… Can a child truly love a mother as absent as I have been? I don't understand it. Hegar insists on building that bond, shaping an image of me that does not match who I am. As if affection were necessary. But affection is just another tool. It's not love Kirch needs—it's stability. Control.
"Have you seen how it's healed?" Hegar said, pointing to a line of blackened scales running across his chest.
"Yes. Better to leave a mark where the internal changes were made. It seems to have healed well. They look like normal scales, just a little darker. We can justify it culturally or say it's a natural mutation."
I extended my hand and touched the black scales. I felt the fast pulse beneath my fingers. I didn't know if it was because of my closeness or because of the modification I had made. Perhaps both.
"Ahh… shame I have to wait another five years before I can operate again," Hegar said with feigned resignation, as he picked up the fallen robots. One had a dislocated arm. He replaced it with an efficiency that reminded me why having him as an assistant was useful.
"In any case, progress so far has been consistent. His growth and development are well above average. He'll be more resilient for your experiments."
Kirch was tall for his age. His legs were firm, his balance excellent. He could already run, jump, and even beat his small wings with surprising precision. His muscle mass was denser, his scales smooth but resilient. Everything was going according to plan.
"Shall we celebrate his third year, then?" Hegar asked, pulling a cake from one of the lab cabinets. It was crudely decorated, with three crooked candles and the name Kirch written in blue icing.
"Alright. I could use a moment's pause."
Six years. That's how long it took before everything began to falter. Three months ago, I opened his abdomen to implant a set of glands that would allow him to metabolize toxins and poisons more efficiently—a promising improvement. But something went wrong.
His body wasn't processing normal food well, and due to the modifications, his energy requirements had skyrocketed. The worst part was that I noticed too late. I had given him pain suppressors, convinced that Hegar and I would be competent enough to anticipate any complications. I underestimated the body's ability to destroy itself just to keep its primary systems running.
I realized too late, when we found him forcing himself to vomit his food. Hegar insisted he eat everything and would get angry if he didn't. But when we asked him what was wrong, Kirch replied with a troubling expression—a mix of pain and resentment:
"It feels bad when I eat… and when I chew too… like I'm going to explode. It's like something wants to get out of my body, but it can't… Only this makes me feel okay."
I looked at him. I couldn't tell what I saw in his face. Distrust? Pain? A flicker of awareness? Perhaps he was beginning to understand what we were doing to him. If that's the case, it's a problem.
I could regulate his mood with neurotransmitters, dopamine and serotonin in precise doses. But altering the brain so early increases the risk of global dysfunctions in his system. And I can't afford that.
Since then, I stopped attending his birthdays. I became complacent. I thought everything was fine. I allowed myself the luxury of acting like a mother, instead of remaining the biologist I must be. And that's why I made mistakes. My judgment became clouded. My time became divided. And that can't happen again.
First Failure
Six years. That's how long it took before everything began to falter. Three months ago, I opened his abdomen to implant a set of glands that would allow him to metabolize toxins and poisons more efficiently—a promising improvement. But something went wrong.
His body wasn't processing normal food well, and due to the modifications, his energy requirements had skyrocketed. The worst part was that I noticed too late. I had given him pain suppressors, convinced that Hegar and I would be competent enough to anticipate any complications. I underestimated the body's ability to destroy itself just to keep its primary systems running.
I realized too late, when we found him forcing himself to vomit his food. Hegar insisted he eat everything and would get angry if he didn't. But when we asked him what was wrong, Kirch replied with a troubling expression—a mix of pain and resentment:
"It feels bad when I eat… and when I chew too… like I'm going to explode. It's like something wants to get out of my body, but it can't… Only this makes me feel okay."
I looked at him. I couldn't tell what I saw in his face. Distrust? Pain? A flicker of awareness? Perhaps he was beginning to understand what we were doing to him. If that's the case, it's a problem.
I could regulate his mood with neurotransmitters, dopamine and serotonin in precise doses. But altering the brain so early increases the risk of global dysfunctions in his system. And I can't afford that.
Since then, I stopped attending his birthdays. I became complacent. I thought everything was fine. I allowed myself the luxury of acting like a mother, instead of remaining the biologist I must be. And that's why I made mistakes. My judgment became clouded. My time became divided. And that can't happen again.
I fixed the bug. But I decided to focus only on what matters: the project. Nothing else. Drives, affections, bonds… they're just biological interferences. Everything society calls "natural" can be dissected, inhibited, replaced.
And that's precisely what I intend to do.
Perfectionism
At seven years old, Kirch has reached remarkable development. His size is already approaching that of a preadolescent. His body has increased in volume, his musculature responds well to physical stimulation, and the new glands I implanted have been accepted without complications. To be certain, I incorporated biological feedback systems capable of detecting and correcting anomalies without external intervention.
This year it is my responsibility to take charge of his education. Hegar is preparing for when Kirch turns nine and he can begin his own experiments. Although he doesn't say it out loud, I know he is waiting for it with anticipation.
Study
Kirch is more intelligent than I anticipated. The modifications have optimized the distribution of internal resources, sending more nutrients and oxygen to the brain. The result: a plastic mind, capable of learning quickly—but also dangerous if it ever becomes too aware.
That's why I limit his lessons. I teach him basic scientific principles, but focus on disciplines that won't give him too many tools to question himself: psychology, sociology, the arts. Useful but not very threatening fields. Next year, Hegar's procedures will begin. I must make sure his body is in perfect condition to withstand them, because I know my husband doesn't share my same scientific rigor. And if he makes a mistake, it will be me who has to fix it.
When I look at Kirch, I don't see a son. I see a prototype. A tool. A path toward the future. A means to redesign our species, to perfect the society of Demur, and perhaps, the entire world. What others consider breakthroughs—superficial treatments, placebo cures, hollow discoveries—are nothing compared to what we are achieving here. The future of medicine is not in drugs. It is in flesh. In the biological code.
In him.
And that is still yet to come.