Junior

So this is my son, lying on pristine white maternity sheets. Will I love him?

I say my son; he’s not really. He’s me with all the crap taken out.

They mapped me. Found the root of every defect and flaw. My ‘son’ won’t be bald, and the hair he has will be blonde not mousy. He won’t be short-sighted, and his eyes will be blue not brown. Genetically pre-disposed to cancer of the colon? Don’t worry sir we’ve taken that out, and while we were there we made him an inch taller too. As a special bonus, today only, there’s an 80% chance he’ll be 20% cleverer. How can I love him? He’s not my heir, he’s my upgrade.

When he’s grown up, replaced me and wants kids of his own, what will he do? He’ll have no genetic handicaps, no infertility as an excuse, but will he take the same chance that I did to make an even better son? An even higher IQ, more muscle, less fat? Then 30 years later will the same happen again? A magic photocopier producing copies even better than the original, until I look like a blurry, unreadable waste of flesh in comparison. How can I love someone who’s so much better than me?

He’s going to have it so easy. He won’t be called ‘specky’ at school. He’ll be top of the class not second. Christine Carter will go out with him not Mark Little. He’ll be a blue-eyed blonde, and probably good at sports too knowing his luck. Why should I love him? He won’t need it.

Of course we’re not the only ones doing this. I know five couples myself who’ve done the same thing. Taylor and Henderson are both honest at least. They admit they’re doing it to give their kids an advantage. Taylor cloned his wife, got a pretty little girl. We’ll have to stay in touch with them. That daughter would make a good wife for little replacement here. I know he’d approve, after all I fancy Mrs Taylor.

So there will be competition for Junior. He’s got to beat all the other enhanced clones out there. If I know five there must be thousands more. All being driven on by their own insecure, inferior parent-donors. So Junior will want his children to be better, and he’ll do just what I’ve done, so that his son can beat the clones of better people than me. A genetic arms race. My great grandson will be a superman and his descendants will be gods.

So is that the future? Copies of today’s bitter people, flexing bio-mechanical muscles over parking spots and checkout queues.

Poor sods.

Course I’ll love him.