Third Time's the Charm

Another of my late husband's stories. This one is, by and large, one of my least favorite of his due to the bleakness of the content... although I can acknowledge it as some of the best of his writing.

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They had been watching for a long time, debating on whether or not to do it. Factions argued and debated, pondering the flaws compared to the merits. Every point was carefully sifted and measured. The reasons were many, as were the reasons not to. This was taken seriously.

At the destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the process sped up. The luxury of millennia was over. A decision was imminent.

Less than a hundred years passed before judgment was rendered.

In sixty places a small cylinder was dropped into the sky, places where the wind was strong. The cylinders sublimated quickly, dissolving into what appeared to be nothingness.

Not exactly nothingness.

Just particles smaller than the eye could see. Particles that multiplied, again and again. Tiny constructs that launched themselves into the wind, dived into the water, and burrowed into the earth. It took all those years to make a decision that was irrevocable in two days.

At the stroke of the forty-eighth hour, the particles could be found within any cubic inch of soil on earth, in the deepest ocean trenches, and at the top of the highest mountains. No island was spared, no mine-shaft, no secret hidden place. Anywhere on earth, everywhere on earth, the constructs could be found. If anyone had known to look.

At the stroke of the seventy-second hour, the constructs did their job and crumbled. They dissolved into polymers that warped into compounds that melted into individual carbon atoms and a few trace elements and vanished without a hint of their origin or purpose.

It took three months before anybody noticed something was different.

Hospitals weren't as busy as they should be. Most of the usual things continued. People were still treated for cancer, for drug overdoses, for prostate troubles, obesity, and facelifts, but something was missing.

Two more months went by before the hospitals knew for sure, and they were the first to realize.

Children.

They were still being born, at seemingly normal rates, nothing exciting or unusual. And yet, no one was coming in for the first time. Nobody panicked and ran for a blood test because their protection failed. No one went berserk because their test came back with a positive result. No newlyweds who were trying were successful. No matter how many fertility shots were administered, they just wouldn't take. Strange. But there was no way to evaluate it. It wasn’t medical. It wasn’t science. The hospitals kept quiet about it.

No viruses were discovered, no chemical imbalances were detected. Hormones were normal, menstruation was fine, sperm counts were average, but nowhere was there a first-trimester pregnancy. Two more months went by before the story broke outside the hospital rope line.

No one believed the headlines at first. Why that's silly! they would say, silently demanding that their voices not crack at the mere thought it might be true. Just last week that young lady in apartment 4a had a healthy baby girl. They simply regarded this as another attempt to sell news through scare tactics.

On April 14th, at 7:53 AM, after a simple delivery, David Pinkham was born at the Sacred Heart Hospital in Shreveport, Illinois. A healthy six-pound four-ounce baby boy.

He was the last child born on earth.

At first people joked about it. Today is nobody's birthday. No buns in the oven. Things like that. But the jokes didn't last long. Scientists began to look for the cause in earnest. Every nation had its best people on the job. No research was hidden, all cooperated. Sperm banks were set up everywhere, in the hopes that one man or woman was spared, or that a particular combination would work. Vast and detailed information on human reproduction was gathered, stymied only by the inability to watch it in action. All that international effort, but not even zygotes would form.

Nothing.

Well, they found part of the problem: people had been altered genetically. Something basic had been changed. What that something was? The scientists didn't know and could not figure it out. How had it happened? They had no clue. How do they fix it? Well, they did not shout this from the rooftops, but they said it among themselves that this was beyond them. Nothing they knew helped. No pattern, no medical advance, nada.

Animals were not affected. As far as man could tell, the wild creatures were spared. Insane, desperate attempts to merge animal and human DNA were completely unsuccessful.

David Pinkham was kidnapped when he was two years old. A young woman was apprehended, frantic, wild-eyed, and tearful. It's not fair! she screamed over and over. Why do they have one and I can't! David was returned to his parents. They did not want to press charges.

The woman took her own life a few days later.

Many articles were written about her, and about why. Half the world forgave her, and half condemned. But everyone understood why.

Kidnapping became a common problem among the last children, as they came to be called. More and more, people (couples mostly) grew resentful and jealous of the parents of the last children. Until the last ones had to be isolated from the world at large. When David Pinkham was spotted everything would stop. People simply stared at him, enraptured. Whenever his security was breached, hordes of paparazzi would converge.

Entire magazines were devoted to his every childhood utterance and action. The world watched him grow up. All the last children were treated this way. But David, by far, was the most affected.

More years went by and no more children were born. Some took it as a sign from the heavens, and made peace with themselves, and their neighbors, and awaited the end. Others raged. There was screaming and demanding Why? Never getting an answer, they took their hatred and frustration out on others. Ending their lives in a frenzy of denial, taking many with them.

A few trusted in science and human resourcefulness and patiently waited for them to make things right. Scientists and the technological elite quietly gathered the knowledge and wisdom of all mankind together. They looked for any clue as to what had happened.

As time went on, the last children came of age. David Pinkham married Susana Alvarez. She was born four days earlier than he was. The worldwide celebrations of their wedding lasted for days. A false era of hope dawned on humanity, despite the warnings of the scientists. It crumbled a year or two later. They were infertile as well.

Not even David Pinkham, whose name was known in every house and village, in every empty maternity ward, and every abandoned school–not even he could create a child.

That was the turning point. The moment the world truly understood. That it was over.

The people of earth at first despaired, then denied, and then raged. And then despaired again. Whole religions sprang up where people knew in their hearts and souls, if they were good and pure enough, they would be given a child. Or maybe an explanation.

Some went the opposite extreme, reasoning that nothing mattered, so take what you want, there's no reason to leave anything behind.

Empires crumbled. Concepts like destiny, legacy, and history no longer had any meaning. Who cared what you accomplished, when no one would be around to remember?

In some places, monuments were erected, in hopes that other races, perhaps evolved apes or alien visitors, would know and remember humanity. The wisdom and lore of the whole of mankind was sealed away in time vaults, hopefully designed to last millennia.

When David was forty, people had mostly grown accustomed to their fate. Genetics was the only science people were interested in. A few desperate people still tried to discover why and how.

The vast empires were gone. There was little interest in politics. What was the point? Suicides were commonplace, spoken of in passing resignation. Few holidays were noticed, let alone celebrated.

People stayed in touch for a long time, but slowly communications decayed. The satellites stopped working, the phone lines went down, even the Ham radios began to fail as parts became impossible to replace.

Animals were becoming common again. Dogs had begun to go feral more and more, as had cats. The wild things reclaimed the cities. People rarely lived there. The vast empty canyons of abandoned buildings were too big for the population, And their steel swing sets and wheel-a-rounds were too much of a reminder.

The ones that were left preferred to gather in smaller places. A storm would break a dam, an earthquake would ruin a once cherished landmark and no one would repair the damage. The forests and jungles were returning.

David Pinkham died at sixty-eight. There weren't enough people interested in running a newspaper for it to be common knowledge. Nobody did an autopsy or examination to find out what he died of. Friends buried him, a few old men and women who wondered who would be the ones to bury them when their time came.

Nobody knew who was the last person to die, nobody was there to remember. No one knew what country they came from, what was the cause, how old they were. It didn't matter.

The judges of mankind began to arrive when there were no humans left. This time would be different. Mammals weren't the ones. Neither had been the reptiles. This was not the first time the judgment had been made on earth. The decision against reptiles had taken much longer than the ruling against mammals. Now they would try insects. The decision was reached quickly, with only one hundred years of debate.

Cylinders were released, and the process began again. Seventy-two hours later, the tiny nano-constructs did their job.

All over the world, in anthills, beehives, and termite mounds, the droning sounds changed. The beings grew aware. Became thoughtful.

A new day was dawning.

Maybe this time, the judges conferred. This time. This time they'd do things the right way.

Third time’s the charm.

~~~~~~

Note, this is not the same universe as Green for Go and Cold as Ice. Those are my own creations.