The Company's Children
From: Kristen Tolden kristen.tolden@kidsor.com
To: Tara Venkatesan tara.venkatesan@kidsor.com
Subject: Disciplinary meeting scheduled
Hi Tara,
You have a disciplinary meeting scheduled for today at 10am, Conference Room B.
You are being summoned to discuss your Section 4.2 violation. Physical contact between employees is forbidden. Consequences include: genetic material confiscation, financial penalty, and trading of co-perpetrator.
Please be prepared to make your choice.
Sincerely not kidding,
Kristen Tolden from HR
P.S. How did you like this notification? Reply back with a 😊 or 🙁 and any additional comments.
Conference Room B
The table between them was white laminate, regulation size. Kristen had already been waiting with a form when Tara arrived. Two checkboxes. Company Placement and Termination.
“You understand the violation,” Kirsten started.
“Yes.”
Kristen continued, “The fetus has acceptable genetic material. If you choose company placement, it will be transferred to a synth womb and raised in the children’s ward. You will have no contact. Alternatively, you can elect termination and pay the standard fine.”
Kristen’s pen hovered expectantly over the form. Tara looked at the boxes for seven seconds.
“Whatever is best for the company.”
Kristen checked the box on the left.
Four years later
“Do you ever think about her?” Mai asked some version of this at least once a week, sometimes more, brown eyes bright and piercing.
“I haven’t seen her at all. She was placed in a synth womb a month after conception. I don’t even remember how old she is anymore.”
Lie. 4 years and 28 days
“But do you wonder? What she looks like?”
Tara stifled a groan. She hated when Mai started this.
“The offspring get more from the company than they’d get from donors. Plus, donors get more fun, less work. What’s not to like?”
Mai collapsed back into her chair, sipping her coffee. “That’s not what I asked.”
“It’s the only answer I have.”
Mai was a rare transfer from another company. All pink sneakers, colorful scarves, and irrepressible curiosity. At Trantor United, donors visited their offspring twice a year. She couldn’t understand why Tara wouldn’t want to.
Mai had shown her a picture once. Not a real picture (those were forbidden) but she’d described it so precisely that Tara could see it anyway. Mai’s grandmother’s kitchen in the Before Times. Yellow curtains. A table where people sat close enough to pass plates to each other. Mai said her grandmother told her that people used to eat meals facing each other.
The idea seemed absurd and wonderful.
Tara’s eyes swept the break room. Her manager Sam stood by the coffee machine, watching.
“And with that,” Tara said, standing, “time to get back to work.”
Mai groaned but followed.
From: Tara Venkatesan tara.venkatesan@kidsor.com
To: Mai Ngân mai.ngan@kidsor.com
Subject: Raincheck on spa day?
Hi Mai,
Can’t make it this weekend. Sam gave me a special assignment…and you know my promotion’s up for this quarter.
I’ll make it up to you Monday. Promise.
Cheers,
Tara
Monday, 2:47 PM
The email arrived sandwiched between a reminder about quarterly compliance training and a celebratory announcement that the cafeteria now stocked raspberry-filled donuts on Wednesdays.
From: Kristen Tolden kristen.tolden@kidsor.com
To: Everyone everyone@kidsor.com
Subject: Company announcements - Week of 5/22
Good morning Kids,
We beat the quarterly sales target by 11%! Everyone can celebrate this weekend with a +20 credit bonus.
Departures (2):
- Ravan Na. Terminated. All benefits suspended immediately.
- Mai Ngân. Died in RetroFit Spa’s malfunction, which will be fixed shortly. Free donuts in the break room for Mai’s funeral. Be there or be square!
Sincerely,
Kristen Tolden from HR
P.S. How did you like this week’s announcement? Reply back with a 😊 or 🙁 and any additional comments.
Tara read it twice. Then she archived it from her inbox.
The authentication service was throwing 500 errors in production. Three pages from the on-call team already. Sam expected a fix pushed by end of shift.
She pulled up the logs and found the exception.
Mai had been afraid of the massage beds. She’d told Tara once, whispering during a fire drill, that she always chose the aromatherapy pods instead.
She stopped typing and looked at the clock. Her break started in six minutes. She could push the fix after. Sam would understand a small delay. Everyone took their full break allotment. It was company policy after all.
At 3:00 PM
Tara locked her terminal and walked to the elevator. She did not walk quickly. She did not look at anyone. The elevator descended past recreation, past residences, down to administration.
The door opened on sublevel four.
The floor was empty; HR kept different hours. Motion-activated hallway lights clicked on as she walked. She slipped behind the plexiglass barrier and sat at the nearest desk.
Tara had helped Mai install a system update two months ago. Mai had complained about the annoying security requirement and how it locked her out of her own files.
“Just use the admin bypass,” Tara had told her. “The one everyone uses.”
Mai had laughed. “You mean the one that definitely doesn’t exist?”
She still remembered the keystrokes. Access granted.
The children’s ward was restricted access only on sublevel seven. But HR had stair alarm controls for emergency evacuations. It was a fire code regulation that she saw on this year’s company safety quiz.
She quickly disabled the stairwell alarm, walked down three more flights of stairs, and pushed open the door.
Sublevel seven, 3:17 PM
The room was full of white cribs, arranged in neat rows. The ceiling lights hummed at a frequency meant to promote optimal development. Each crib had an alphanumeric designation printed on a small placard.
She’d memorized Milli’s designation the day they took her. C-47. They’d let Tara hold her for nine seconds while they processed the paperwork.
C-47 sat in the third row.
The child inside was four years old according to the chart, though the company didn’t celebrate birthdays. She had dark hair like Tara’s, and she was awake, staring at the ceiling with the stillness that children in the ward learned early. Crying brought no one.
A stuffed elephant sat in the corner of the crib.
They have toys now. We didn’t have toys.
Tara’s hands touched the rail of the crib.
The child turned her head. Their eyes met.
Tara had learned many useful things in four years. She’d learned to file reports on time, to eat lunch in under twenty minutes, to shower in the precise amount of hot water allotted per day. She’d learned to sleep through the announcements that played every morning over the building’s speakers. She’d learned not to flinch when people left, when they disappeared from their desks, when their names appeared in emails between notes about donuts.
She’d learned to be efficient.
She reached into the crib and picked up Milli.
The child weighed almost nothing. Her small body went stiff, then softened against Tara’s chest. Tara could feel her heartbeat.
The alarm started immediately.
It wasn’t loud. The company didn’t believe in loud. It was a steady, reasonable beep that indicated a protocol violation had occurred and appropriate personnel would take control.
Tara stood in the white room, holding Milli.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway.
Eighteen steps to the stairs. She’d counted on the way in.
Seven flights up. Hallway, elevator, lobby. Badge-locked doors. Street patrols every six minutes.
Milli’s hand curled against Tara’s collarbone.
The footsteps grew closer.
Tara looked at the crib. The white blanket lay folded at one end, regulation hospital corners. Milli could go back in. The alarm would stop. Security would file a report. Maybe Tara would be transferred to a different division. They might reduce her housing allocation. But Milli would be safe. Milli would grow up. The company took care of its assets.
She looked at Milli’s face.
The door handle turned.
I could—
The door opened.
Author’s Note
Written in 2020, revised too many times since.
I’ve worked at companies with free food, gyms, and nap pods. Great perks, but when does “taking care of” become “taking over”?
Originally published on ForgeFiction