PREVIEW: Frozen Generation
I WATCHED THE MECHANICAL arm remove a post-gestational
fetus from the purple semi-transparent encasement. The Kevlar
and steel womb could have slept a half-dozen grown men, easy.
Based on the Product of Conception’s development, under
other circumstances, the male child would’ve been transferred
to the nursery a year ago. By law, fifteen minutes separated a
POC from a non-person—the more dignified slave designation—
so breeders gave living spare parts no freedom.
fetus from the purple semi-transparent encasement. The Kevlar
and steel womb could have slept a half-dozen grown men, easy.
Based on the Product of Conception’s development, under
other circumstances, the male child would’ve been transferred
to the nursery a year ago. By law, fifteen minutes separated a
POC from a non-person—the more dignified slave designation—
so breeders gave living spare parts no freedom.
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The LOST GENRE GUILD
Biblical Speculative Fiction
| Andrea Graham's short story "Frozen Generation" can be found in Light at the Edge of Darkness along with 26 other stories of Biblical speculative fiction.
|
The doomed POC sure screamed like any free child, though. It screamed as the
mechanical arm whisked it through the air. It screamed as the arm dropped it in the
separator. It screamed until the droning silver cylinder silenced the screams,
extracting the beating heart needed to save the baby the parents had wanted.
I lowered my head. My eyes remained as dry as the Sahara, which my ancestors had
called home before that POC’s ancestors reduced mine to chattel. Maybe the soldier
who executed my husband fathered the child. Maybe his mother made the report
about my husband’s preaching against my current employer, against the breeders
turning the descendants of slave and master alike into chattel.
I whispered, “The sins of the fathers.”
Harvesting organs from female POCs didn’t bother me at all. I didn’t even weep when
a precious Black baby girl slipped through my sticky fingers. Better they meet this end
than face the life that awaited female slaves.
My daily quota met, I leapt up from the evil console I used to manipulate the
mechanical arm. I kept my head down to avoid the ever-watching eye. My supervisor
perused the security camera and might discern in my eyes the urge to walk out the
door and never come back.
A silent frozen cry pierced me, removing all thought of quitting. I headed down the
sterile-white corridor to the freezer.
At the steel door, I punched in my code. The lock hissed and the door slid open. I
grabbed a coat and an embryo rack from my cubby before stepping inside the burning
sub-zero temperatures. I pulled my palm-computer out of my coat pocket and double-
checked my list for the right shelf.
My tear ducts threatened to frost as I walked down rows upon rows of frozen
humanity, up to three months gestational age at this facility; another processed late-
term pregnancy terminations. The bio-mothers had declared all non-human products
of conception. Only, most chose selling their offspring to science, or into slavery,
over paying to dispose them.
Nearly two-thirds of the babies conceived in Philadelphia this year would be
processed through this facility. A disproportionate number were my own people,
beautiful Black babies betrayed by the very souls God appointed to protect them.
God appointed me to deliver the captives to safety, as Harriet Tubman had in
centuries gone by. Only Harriet never hid her passengers in her womb.
mechanical arm whisked it through the air. It screamed as the arm dropped it in the
separator. It screamed until the droning silver cylinder silenced the screams,
extracting the beating heart needed to save the baby the parents had wanted.
I lowered my head. My eyes remained as dry as the Sahara, which my ancestors had
called home before that POC’s ancestors reduced mine to chattel. Maybe the soldier
who executed my husband fathered the child. Maybe his mother made the report
about my husband’s preaching against my current employer, against the breeders
turning the descendants of slave and master alike into chattel.
I whispered, “The sins of the fathers.”
Harvesting organs from female POCs didn’t bother me at all. I didn’t even weep when
a precious Black baby girl slipped through my sticky fingers. Better they meet this end
than face the life that awaited female slaves.
My daily quota met, I leapt up from the evil console I used to manipulate the
mechanical arm. I kept my head down to avoid the ever-watching eye. My supervisor
perused the security camera and might discern in my eyes the urge to walk out the
door and never come back.
A silent frozen cry pierced me, removing all thought of quitting. I headed down the
sterile-white corridor to the freezer.
At the steel door, I punched in my code. The lock hissed and the door slid open. I
grabbed a coat and an embryo rack from my cubby before stepping inside the burning
sub-zero temperatures. I pulled my palm-computer out of my coat pocket and double-
checked my list for the right shelf.
My tear ducts threatened to frost as I walked down rows upon rows of frozen
humanity, up to three months gestational age at this facility; another processed late-
term pregnancy terminations. The bio-mothers had declared all non-human products
of conception. Only, most chose selling their offspring to science, or into slavery,
over paying to dispose them.
Nearly two-thirds of the babies conceived in Philadelphia this year would be
processed through this facility. A disproportionate number were my own people,
beautiful Black babies betrayed by the very souls God appointed to protect them.
God appointed me to deliver the captives to safety, as Harriet Tubman had in
centuries gone by. Only Harriet never hid her passengers in her womb.
The Lost Genre Guild's mission is to promote quality works of Biblical Speculative Fiction (spec-fic)
through its authors, fans; to endorse new releases that fit this criteria; and of course, to glorify Him.
through its authors, fans; to endorse new releases that fit this criteria; and of course, to glorify Him.