by Veronica Andreades
We’re in the last phase of the examination now. My nerve ends are tingling with excitement. Since dissecting Rubeus, the amphibian, in sixth grade, I have dreamed of this moment. I’ve checked and re-checked the math. Not a decimal is out of place. Soon these beautiful, glowing pods before me will hold twenty-five perfectly formed chicks, breaking out of their shells for the first time to breathe new air into their tiny, genetically synthesized lungs. Uh! I feel like a father. But these little creatures won’t only exemplify the great progress we’ve made in recent years in developing full-grown birds from test-tube genes, they’ll also be the zoetic tickets that secure my place in the prestigious Vitanova Program for the development of artificial animals and food. I never thought that eggs could mean so much to me.
When I say the competition from the other contenders is a joke, I’m not exaggerating. Honestly, I expected better from the academy. Just a couple more minutes and I’ll be shaking the hands of my soon-to-be colleagues and instructors. They’re watching me from the observation room, but their gaze does not unnerve me, it fuels me. A few more degrees up, to help my chicks feel comfortable in their new environment. The proctor is pacing behind me now. Any minute now, they’ll begin cracking out of their shells. I can practically see the blue lab coat, freshly pressed with a white Vitanova insignia embroidered on the shoulder, hanging in my closet.
Everything is ready. All the dials have been turned to the precise degrees. They should be hatching now. Wait, why is Cora opening her capsules? The one in the pink heels. She’s not smart enough to be here, and she knows it. There’s no way hers survived.
My eggs should be moving.
Why aren’t my eggs moving?