The Shimmer Project

Ebba

James

18 years earlier

I marched swiftly through the white-tiled corridors, my heart hammering in my chest.

It was two a.m. I was half asleep, I'd barely had time to dress, my shirt hung out of my pants, and I'd given up on shoes and wore only my slippers. My steps were silent, my breathing heavy.

The corridors were all empty. Everyone was in the delivery room, waiting, watching. It was ridiculous for me to be late.

I was the one who needed to be there most.

I was the father.

Impatience got the best of me and I ran down the last hallway and burst into the maternity wing.

It was an enormous lab with a smaller lab in the centre, closed off with clear plastic walls.

Biologists, anthropologists, veterinarians, psychologists, physicists, you name it. The scientists were all there in the bigger lab, crowded around the smaller lab, notepads in hand.

I quickly straightened my shoulders, pushed my dark hair out of my eyes, and marched towards them. They split apart, giving me a narrow passage to the door to the smaller lab, which was guarded by two enormous guards.

Ignoring them, I scanned my badge and pushed the door open.

Inside the small lab, there was a single delivery bed, a plethora of beeping machines and two nurses.

They were leaning over Ebba, who had her ankles, wrists, and chest stepped down to the delivery bed with thick reinforced kevlar. She wore a simple pink hospital gown, already soaked in sweat, her swollen stomach protruded.

The nurses were taking her blood pressure and heart rate. They wrote their answers down.

"Normal Chief, there shouldn't be a problem, all heartbeats are strong," one said and the other nodded in agreement.

"Why didn't you call me when she first went into labour?" I snarled at them. They shrank away from me.

"Sorry, sir," one breathed.

"We didn't think you needed to be bothered until it was ready to give birth."

"It's been in labour for seven hours, we didn't want to waste your time."

"Bullshit," I hissed. "I told you I wanted to be here," I snapped.

The nurses nodded and stared at the floor. Their faces were covered in sweat, their eyes blood-shot, they looked as exhausted as Ebba, who was breathing heavily on the little cot.

I turned away from them, glancing around.

Director Morgan was standing in the largest lab, looking in. His eyes gleamed, staring at Ebba's languid body. He was in a good mood, that was rare. I gave him a curt nod, and he smiled at me.

I reached out and clutched Ebba's sweaty little hand. She twisted her head around to stare at me. Her eyes were wide, and her face was drenched in sweat. Her mouth opened to say something, but she let out a gasp of pain instead. Her eyes flashed black then faded back as she focused on me.

"Hi Ebba," I spoke gently.

Her lips were chapped. She wasn't healing herself.

I squeezed her hand.

She squeezed my hand back.

"Hi, James. I'm sick of this now."

"I know, it's almost over."