Primogeniture (The Firstborn)

11: The Firstborn

It was with something of a grey wasted look that Dr Andrew Ruddle entered the Camden bunker prepared for what he believed would be a difficult day. The remains of the late summer holiday tan, whilst still remaining, had turned to that indefinite oily, grey veneer, no longer substantial enough to hide the fraught, worried, scared face peering out from behind the confident charm. The tick in his left eye had been troubling him again and he was anxious to have matters resolved.

Entering his oppulent office suite he sat for a while alone, contemplating his position and what troubles the coming few hours would bring.

After a while the door buzzed and Philip Watts entered, clearly perturbed and anxious.

“So, you were called back from the States I gather,” Andrew asked in a soft subdued tone, wondering why on earth Philip had been called back to attend an audience with the Firstborn.

“Well, you could say that. I was halfway through a series of lectures. Have you any idea what this is all about?”

“I should imagine that what we thought could be contained, has got back to the Firstborn and all I know is that he wants to talk to both of us.”

“Why here. We could have done it by video link.” Philip muttered crossing the room and taking a seat opposite Andrew.

“Apparently, there are concerns over the operation here. Changes might be afoot. The Firstborn is not at all happy about the New Blood. Going on the missing list like that. You know how important they are for the program and how potentially dangerous they can be if they go AWOL.”

“No, I have to be honest, I never did see that kidnapping kids was a good idea, whatever the scientific value.”

“They’re not kidnapped. Whatever gave you that idea? They’re adopted and cared for.”

“And loved?” Philip cut in.”

“Of course, for the most part, probably, yes, as much as most other kids are. And they benefit from all our advances.”

“Experimented on you mean.”

“You make it sound like Dr Mengele’s on the loose.”

“And isn’t he?”

“No, you’ve got this all wrong. These children were orphans, victims of war. We offered them homes, security and life. Anyway, that decision was made a very long time ago. When children were needed to test the effects of emerging treatments. Before any ageing had affected their chromosomes.”

An intercom buzzed urgently. “The Firstborn is ready for you now, Sir”

“Into the lion’s den then,” Philip quipped.

Andrew glared at him and stood up. “Just keep your mouth shut unless he addresses you directly. Let me do the talking.”

Walking to the very back of the room, they stood and waited, to all intense and purposes admiring a large painting by Monet depicting a hayrick in the golden light of evening.

Moments later the wall slid open revealing a darkened room.  Andrew and Philip walked slowly in.

The lights, operated by a movement sensor, gradually grew in intensity and illuminated a featureless white room, starkly clinical.

“This is cosy,” Philip ventured, looking around for somewhere to sit.

The room resembled the size and shape of a medieval audience chamber, with a slightly raised plinth at the far end, but not high enough to be a stage.

“Just keep quiet,” Andrew instructed nervously.

What happened next was no surprise to Andrew who had attended many audiences with the Firstborn. Philip however, had not been called before and was therefore somewhat surprised to see the raised plinth, suddenly alive with streaks of light beamed sideways as though from some invisible aperture in the wall. Within seconds the streaks of light seemed to organise themselves and appeared to take form.