A hazed pink stripes the sky, mirrored in the regiments of roof panels, imbuing the street with a crimson glow. I love this hour, when tentative hues give rise to shape and form. The birds agree; their chorus swells with seesaw chirps and trills. Robins, blackbirds, goldcrests.
Possibly a finch.
Kane steps forward and scans the road. I check the time and count to four.
Today is a four day.
‘Clear,’ says Kane.
We tread softly past houses huddled in semi-circles, all facing the sun: last-generation builds, patchworks of recycled brick and stone. The Hydrail hisses in the distance. Our appointment is at number twenty-four. Which is good, because that’s six fours.
Kane unclicks the gate.
Red and green eyes wink at us from the walls: bricked in bottles. Some people consider these designs too gaudy, but I like them. They remind me of those glass pebbles Mum and I found one summer on a beach in Wales, by the village that fell into the sea.
Someone’s up: a light is on. No one leaves lights on overnight: a needless waste of your resource quota. I approach the door and wait for the house to announce me. A blind flicks, and the light snaps off. I sigh. Here we go.
I address the camera: ‘My name is Ministry Representative Houghton. I work for the Ministry of Population and Family Planning.’ I pause while their system authenticates me. ‘I am here to investigate an offence under section twenty-five of the Population Planning Act. You are legally obliged to grant me access.’
Silence.
I imagine the hushed discussion, refining alibis, perhaps some wild escape plan. Kane’s already interrogated the layout. He’s got all exits covered.
I count to four and rap on the door.
‘This is your first warning.’
The light switches back on. And another.
Kane moves into position, in front.
In mythology, Kane is the god of procreation. Kane also means ‘little warrior’; I picked it specially. I never say it out loud, though. We’re not supposed to give them names, in case we become attached, fret about their demise. It’s one of the reasons the Ministry doesn’t programme them with personalities.
A man with a long, oval face opens the door. He attempts a smile, which wilts as he clocks Kane. A woman with pale skin and curly black hair is clamped to his side. Her gaze moves over my face and lingers, predictably, on my eyes.
I finger my Ministry badge while Kane completes his checks.
‘Are you Samuel and Linda Charring?’
My feed has already confirmed their identities, but it’s a procedural relic we’re obliged to follow.
The man nods. More of a twitch. He’s clutching his wife so tightly the skin around his cuticles has bleached.
I clear my throat. ‘Linda Charring, your medi-profile indicates that your hCG hormone levels are elevated and you have not menstruated for fifty-nine days. In the last month, you ordered folic acid and vitamin supplements.’
Her breath flutters.
‘This data indicates that you are knowingly pregnant. Yet you have failed to report to a family planning centre.’
Neither of them responds.
‘You have one son registered, living at this address. Is that correct?’
Her eyes flit to the stairs.
‘Each couple is permitted one child in their lifetime. Giving birth to a second child is prohibited by law and constitutes a birth crime.’
The husband steps forward. ‘Look,’ he begins, ‘we didn’t mean to … It’s not like this was planned. It just… ’ his arm flaps like a limp tentacle ‘…happened.’
My jaw stiffens. The same old excuses … As if conception were some unfortunate mishap, beyond their control. The Ministry provides free contraceptive implants that never run out. How difficult can it be?
‘Mr Charring, your wife deactivated her Destine implant.’ I pause. ‘You are both adults. You are aware of the consequences.’
The wife pushes in front of her husband, shielding her belly with her arm. ‘I won’t. You can’t.’ Tears bloom. ‘It’s my baby!’
It was much harder, when I started. Witnessing the anguish of mothers.
Our training reels helped me with that.
Emaciated migrants fleeing camp after camp. The bloody wars over food and water. Acres of crops decimated by pests or sun.
The Charrings’ child won’t starve, or drown in floods that consume whole cities. He won’t die a slow, painful death from disease or burn in a wildfire that incinerates his home.
‘Please … can’t you make an exception? Just once?’
She gazes at me as if I am some benevolent deity, empowered to forgive her sin.
I didn’t slog my way up to executive grade three, with my condition, by turning a blind eye.
‘We’ll absorb the child’s resources into our quota,’ she continues. ‘There’ll be no excess, I swear.’
I take a breath. ‘We tried that before. It doesn’t work.’
This is how we got into this mess. Bending the rules, trusting people to make the right choices. While the climate spiralled out of control.
The husband slumps. He knows it’s pointless. But not her.
‘I won’t do it,’ she says, in a raw whisper. ‘Go ahead: arrest me.’
Kane makes a slight whirring noise. I cross my fingers under my sleeve four times.
We’re both alert to this stage: when defence ramps up to defiance. This is what we’ve trained for: PMC. Probable moment of confrontation.
‘It’s my right. My human right.’ Her lip quivers. ‘We never used to have these laws. They’re … barbaric!’
I don’t explain that our own profligate consumption compelled them, and the failure to protect our borders. That ONE’s policies saved us from lawlessness and famine.
I have learned the hard way that such logic does not help. It’s more liable to provoke an attack.
‘UK citizens have the right to live in a healthy, prospering environment. This is enshrined in our constitution. Stability and security come at a price. Your family quota has been exceeded. This pregnancy must be terminated. If you refuse to attend your clinic, then the procedure will be enforced.’
She pulls away from her husband. There’s a faint pinging: probably a medi-alert for her escalating heart rate.
‘You and your damned rules,’ she growls.
I brace myself and think of Niko, curled in his basket.
‘No compassion. No mercy.’ Her eyes glitter. ‘About as human as that silicon shit-heap beside you.’
Before I have time to react, Kane raises his arm:
‘ABUSE WILL NOT BE TOLERATED!’
Both of them flinch.
‘Linda, sweetheart.’ The husband glances up the stairs. ‘Think of our son.’
She cradles her stomach: ‘What about this son? Or daughter?’ She glares at me. ‘Maybe one day you’ll be on the other side of this door. Then you’ll feel something.’ She turns and sobs into her husband’s chest. ‘I can’t do it, Sam … I just can’t… ’
I apply the distraction technique and count the spindles on their staircase: four, and four more. They taper towards the bottom, like miniature oars.
‘Please ensure your wife attends her appointment. Failure to comply is a birth crime and will incur a significant resource penalty and house arrest.’
The husband’s gaze lifts to mine. ‘People will look back at this, and they will judge you for what you do.’
He ushers his wife down the hallway just as a small face peeps over the banister, striped pyjama legs slotted between the spindles. The boy stares at Kane and then me, his mouth a perfect pink zero.
I arrange my lips into what I hope is a smile.
The boy’s eyes do not budge.
I consider lifting my hand in a wave. Anything to break that unblinking stare. But such a gesture might appear trivial.
And I wouldn’t want to be inappropriate.