Was she always her?

By public AirLite it took exactly 42 minutes longer to get to the Geneticist Practitioner across the city than if I had gone to our family geneticist, Doctor Zfar, a couple of blocks away. Having been our family’s Geneticist for three generations, she knew my family intimately, my mom was a close friend helping her open her second practice on the Northside.

The added time of my travel more than compensated for the eliminated risk of judgment I’d face if Doctor Zfar figured out the true intentions of my visit. I was suffocating enough from my own shame I didn’t want to feel the weight of hers.

The South Bound AirLite ran above the perimeter of the city, filling the cart with bright natural light, illuminating its pristine interior. The cart was rowed with like-new royal blue seats bearing no memory of their use regardless of how many passengers sat, spilled, and tore at the silky fabric. I sank into my seat comfortably enough that it’d be easy to accidentally fall asleep if my mind hadn't been so restless with the anticipation of today’s outcome.

My head leaned against the glass window as I stared at my reflection in the polished metal backing of the seat in front. A young teenager with cheeks too round for her age stared back at me. My brazen hazel eyes showed no bearing to how I was truly feeling, the self-judgment running rampant. Trying to calm my thoughts I watched as my thick oaken ringlets bounced succinctly with the AirLite cart as it passed weakened spots on the magnetic track.

Several other passengers shared the cart, not enough that we were forced to sit next to strangers, but enough that I’d lose count before the next stop where passengers would weave on and off.

So many people shuffled on and off at each stop, so many faces and heads and bodies and lives, it was difficult to believe most of them had probably never been born.

A mother sat a few rows in front cradling an infant as her eldest talked on and on about his pet cat named Ferny. I couldn’t help but wonder if she had been born their mother or made their mother. Would that be a question that haunted them as well?

I knew I wasn’t supposed to think like that, it was intolerant for me to do so. Inorganic humans are the same as us. The science had shown it. ‘Inorganic humans have reached precision that no existing computational power on the planet can differentiate’. They had perfected the inorganic brain. It bothered me most that I couldn’t tell the difference.

The AIC did their work exceptionally, winning the artificial intelligence race to be the first international producer of what we now called 'inorganic humans'. The term ‘artificial intelligence’ had become outdated and had grown negative connotations from its early use when they were of inferior intelligence.

The aftermath of the Bio-War diminishing our planet’s population to prehistoric numbers had made them necessary. The remains of our civilization would have taken eons to rebuild if it weren’t for the help of the AIC and their semi-competent AIs. We owe them thanks for that much at least.

Although our use for them has since changed, today an estimated 46% of the population remained as IH. Over three centuries they were perfected and eventually became fully integrated into our society.

One of their more philanthropic services was the Parent Placement Program or the PPP, where deceased parents could commission a replica IH in their stead to raise their child. The PPP marketed it as a way for a child to have the experiences growing up with their real parents and it became a solution for parents with no other options.

At first, an IH’s rights were segregated from ours, and children were entitled to know if their parents were their born parents. As time passed and IHs became more and more indistinguishable as did their rights and it became the IH’s discretion whether the child was informed. ‘If an inorganic parent is no different from their organic parent, then it should be their discretion to decide if they should tell their child’. The IH was exactly their parent after all…, but we should have the right to know.

I first grew suspicious of my mother when I found a saved file of an article buried on her computer’s hard drive. ‘One deceased in Suburb Crash’ and below the headlines, a picture of a bright blue Volvo corrugated against a tree. The same bright blue Volvo that stood in the background of the photo of my parents, which sat on her nightstand. My dad had been dead one year when the article was written and I was 9 months old, too young to remember anything.

Before I could continue reading my mother caught me, seeming notably distressed but attempting to hide it. She told me someone close to her was killed in the accident and it hurt her to talk about, so I never asked again. The picture on her dresser was swiftly replaced with a newborn photo of me and the article had been deleted or moved.

My suspicions worsened by watching her interactions with Doctor Zfar which were odd at times. Like when I saw my mother send her own DNA test results to Doctor Zfar, the same ones Doctor Zfar produced as her latest test results later that day during her appointment.

The doors of the AirLite cart drifted open as if gliding on air. ‘4th Station’ read the large chrome letters above the platform railing.

I made my way off the cart and out of the station to the Geneticist’s clinic located a block away.

The practice was on the 6th floor of a glossy high-rise. The building was kept cool, and I was thankful for the thick sleeves of my cherry-colored sweater. I stepped off the elevator right into the lobby where a pointed nose lady had me fill out new client forms and confirmed my identity before guiding me to the DNA sampling room.

A trainee named Borx, whose skin cracked in the dryness of the air and whose flat oily hair shined under the harsh lighting, supervised.

Racks of collection sample tubes lined a silver table at the back. I spat into one tube, clipped my fingernail with the provided clippers into another, and folded a strand of hair into the last.

“You’re here for heritage testing.” His glossy eyes were illuminated by the screen of his tablet as he read my form. “Is the family member here to give consent or do you have the death certificate and DNA sample?”

“I have the death certificate.” My voice cracked as cool air dried out my throat.

“Excellent, we accept any bodily fluids which have been stored adhering to DNAPA regulations. We also accept fingernails and hair. You can place the family member’s sample in a new rack, and I’ll need to validate the death certificate.” He stuck out his hand in waiting.

I reached around my neck and unclasped my mother’s necklace. I had worn the small gold heart-shaped locket every day since she’d passed. It was simple, smooth, and shiny like everything else.

I was careful opening the tiny hook ensuring none of its contents fell out, grabbing the grain size chip, which held a copy of my mother’s death certificate, and passing it to Borx as he inserted it into the tablet and began validation.

On the other side of the locket was a thick strand of auburn hair coiled in a knot like a tiny hay bail. I walked over to the sampling racks, carefully pinching the strand and placing it into an empty tube.

A reflexive uneasiness swept through me as racks were collected and swift off into another room for testing. That was the only DNA I had of my mother and my only chance of ever getting answers.

Borx handed back the chip without a word which I placed back into the locket and around my neck.

“You may wait in room 4.” He gestured to a shiny hallway with rooms numbered by crisp black letters.

“How long will it take?” I hadn’t expected it to be so quick. Being here was making me feel ungrateful for my mother and I felt like I was letting her down, but I couldn’t live any longer without knowing.

Borx heard the shakiness of my voice looking up from his screen. “A couple minutes for the test, but Doctor Xvir is with another client and will be with you once he’s finished.” I nodded slightly before turning and heading to waiting room 4.

Waiting room 4 sat in contrast to the rest of the clinic. The walls were painted a warm yellow like the colour of delilahs and posters of smiling families plastered the walls. A simple solid mahogany desk sat in the middle of the small room with an office chair on one side and a paisley couch on the other, which I sat in, alone with my thoughts.

If I find out my mother wasn’t born, would I love her any less? If she was unidentifiably her, had the same thoughts, made the same decisions, acted the same way, but wasn’t born should I think of her as any less than who she is? Is she any less her than I am me? This was the same woman who kissed my bruises and sang to me when I was sick, if it wasn’t her should I care?

Thankfully Doctor Xvir came through the door before I had to sit alone with my thoughts any longer. He held a black tablet in his right hand and walked with giddiness to his step which quickly faded as he met my gaze.

“Good afternoon Palox.” His voice was stern but calming, speaking to me as if comforting a child.

“Good afternoon,” I mumbled, already feeling my face turning hot and my heart squeezing.

“Palox, there was something unusual about the DNA sample.” He began... And that was that. He kept talking but I heard nothing. My mother wasn’t my mother. I realized it did matter; I did care. I loved the woman who replaced her, but it wasn’t her. Inorganic humans could never replace organic humans, not for me.

“I’m going to have to report you to the AIC.” Doctor Xvir crossed his hands and smiled wryly.

In the newfound affirmation of my feelings, I felt no more shame, Doctor Xvir wouldn’t change that. “I was not aware my mother was an IH so I can’t be held responsible for wasting your time. Besides, it's not illegal to have an IH tested.”

“Palox, you misunderstand me.” He leaned back in his chair relaxing his smile. “Your mother's sample. The uh…” He looked at his tablet to confirm. “Strand of hair, sequence 4421. I can confirm that was your mother's, her DNA was in the system, and she is very much an OH.”

I sighed with relief, joy sweeping over me as tears started welling in my eyes. She was my mom; I was too thrilled by the news to feel guilty at this moment though I knew it would catch up.

Doctor Xvir interrupted my internal celebration. “Miss Palox, inorganic children are prohibited. They are illegal.” His face remained stern.

I still didn’t understand what this had to do with me as Doctor Xvir continued.

“Your results came back.” Doctor Xvir glanced again at his tablet to confirm my samples. “The saliva, the fingernail, the hair. It was all inorganic DNA. You’re an inorganic child. I’m required by law to inform the AIC.”

My mind went blank. The car accident, my mother’s suspicious interactions with Doctor Zfar. It wasn’t not her; it was always not me.