Bliss

By Catherine Mainland

The salesman thinks of himself as a knight before a joust. Him on his horse, the couple – his 3pm are the Drs. Anderson, with six college degrees between them – on theirs. They have prepared for this final meeting as much but not as effectively as he has; this is the day when they will make their final selections. The AI displays lining his office walls are primed and ready to adjust to his words and tone; the customers will be surrounded by images that have been carefully calibrated to elicit the correct emotional response, based on their pupil dilation and breathing.

He already knows they have scrolled through all of his company’s web pages, and, due to the fine print they didn’t read when accepting the site’s terms, he also knows their browsing habits and history over the last few weeks. The logs show that they read quickly through the basic features on offer, which guarantee healthy organs and bone density. The full immunity package and basic symmetry of teeth and features didn’t capture their attention for long. They lingered over the minutiae; the tabs detailing options for height, BMI, and color of skin, hair, and eyes stayed open the longest. They were both on their laptops late into the night; reviewing their file, he imagines the conversations that turned into arguments that broke their usual routine of streaming a documentary or foreign film. They don’t follow professional sports or seem interested in fashion or beauty beyond their almost compulsive exercise regimes; these people are fully committed to their identity as academics. He knows from their playlists that they pride themselves on not wasting any time on frivolous pleasures, though he also knows how much time they spend playing solitaire or mahjong. They lose an unhealthy amount of time doomscrolling on news sites in the middle of the night, so their intellect will be the fatal chink in their armor. He tightens the buckles of his gauntlets.

The receptionist brings the couple into his office. She isn’t one of the company’s products, but there’s no harm in allowing the customers to think she was an early prototype in the 2030s. Her height, proportions, and beauty act as an advertisement for the very finest specifications of homo sapiens.

The Andersons are pushing forty, well-dressed in the understated way of the truly wealthy. He lets them wait while the receptionist glides back out of the office; they’re too nervous to meet his eye until he speaks to them. He begins with a small smile, paternal and comforting.

“Good afternoon,” he says. His accent is non-descript European by way of Oxbridge. “What questions do we have?”

They have none they want to ask yet, which immediately places him in control. “Let’s begin with the basics, shall we?” He opens their file on a sleek tablet. “Gender you have left unspecified, letting nature take its course.” He glances up at them, the intensity of his blue irises highlighting the silver of his carefully styled hair. “Physique: the recommended stamina package, excellent choice. The child will have every option for its work and leisure activities. And the premium health selections, all known immunities built into the genetic code.” He rewards them with another smile, while the walls display images of healthy, strong, agile children. “Now to the inherited traits. Are there selections you wish to ensure? Keeping the family resemblance, the strong jawline of the father” – this is an exaggeration – “the distinctive widow’s peak of the mother?”

They demur, and he sees them grow restless; this sounds too much like vanity. He stands and moves around the desk, adjusting the creases of his tailored, metallic-grey pants before sitting casually on its edge. The displays switch to soothing nature scenes; children in the distance on a beach or hiking. “You are not interested in such trivial matters; I can see that. Tell me your concerns.”

The couple exchange glances. “Obviously, this is all remarkable, very appealing,” the husband begins. The salesman acknowledges this fact with a slight dip of his head. “We just –” The husband’s voice trails off. He appeals to his wife.

“It’s – – the bigger picture,” she says, going on to talk apologetically about the species as a whole, the dangers of intervening in evolution, the untold risks for future generations of these emerging possibilities. He recognizes headlines and research studies from her late-night browsing history. Yet beneath all their polished phrases and arguments, he detects their guilt at what they are capable of; aghast at their own privilege, they are desperate for his permission to enjoy it. He feels the weight of the lance as it balances in the crook of his elbow.

“We already count Nobel Prize winners among our families.” The salesman never refers to them as products to his customers. “The benefits to humanity and beyond far outweigh the dangers to the genetic integrity of the species. In fact, our eradication of communicable and congenital diseases will only have a positive impact on the population at large.” Behind him, the walls show a stream of clips, young adults walking across award podiums, working in labs, giving lectures, all glowing in a warm color palette.

“But if everyone did this..?” the husband worries.

The salesman laughs indulgently. “The categorical imperative; imagine your decision were universal to determine whether it would be good.”

They nod. He takes a slow breath as the lights dim unobtrusively.

“How many chairs were in the reception area?” He asks, as if addressing two rather slow subordinates.

“Two?” the wife recalls.

“That’s right. Everyone simply cannot do this. Only the most committed to the future, to the species. To their children. Only those who already love their unborn baby enough to do whatever it takes to make her happy.” He was the one to teach the new sales staff how and when to switch from the abstract child to the specific baby in their pitch, when to make the AI display male or female images. His office responds on cue with images of baby girls. “Shall we move on to consider her aptitudes and skills?”

This is too much for the Andersons; he imagines them dropping the visors on their helmets. They talk over each other.

“It just doesn’t seem – ”

“No, it – ”

“Why should our child – ?”

“What would other children think?”

The salesman stands and moves back to his chair, taking his time. “You’re right, of course. Your child will have every blessing already, with your backgrounds and all you can provide. We can focus on the health package and leave the rest to good parenting, all the benefits of your knowledge and station. You will raise your child to understand the choices you made, why his classmates have what he might see as unfair advantages over him.”

He brushes an imagined speck of lint from his jacket sleeve. Groups of schoolchildren now line the walls, in subtle shades of blue and grey; none include an overtly menacing element, but cruelty is implied. He sees the Andersons look at each other from the corner of his eye. His horse moves to the end of the barrier between them, ready to tilt. “He might blame you, of course, there’s always that risk. He’ll be an intelligent boy.” He pauses, adjusting his cufflinks. “Unless.”

The wife is breathing shallowly; she can’t resist asking. “Unless?”

“Unless he doesn’t have your intelligence.” He leans back comfortably in his chair, settling his elbows on the armrests and placing his fingertips together. He watches them struggle not to look at each other.

“You can do that?” the husband asks in a low voice.

The salesman shrugs one shoulder slightly. “It’s our newest line. Top tier; a more delicate procedure. Becoming quite popular with our most elite families.” He pauses again. “It’s called Bliss.” Happy children of various ages begin to appear on the walls in waves.

“Because ignorance is bliss?” The wife struggles to look skeptical.

“Precisely.” His horse is restive, ready for the charge. “My dear,” he continues smoothly, holding her eye, “when did you last fall asleep easily and stay asleep through the night? How many of your waking hours are tainted by unanswerable questions? When did you last feel joy, unadulterated joy?”

She drops his gaze. Her husband takes her hand.

“Your child will be financially secure without needing a career; you will see to it that he wants for nothing. We will ensure his perfect health and a functional IQ, more than enough for self-care and self-awareness. And easily pleased. Not tormenting himself,” he switches again, “not torturing herself with guilt over her shopping sprees and luxury travel or worrying over the next water war or climate migration. Such things will be kept far from her. A comfortable and unexamined life is the best gift you could give her. Or do you feel the world bears examining?”

The husband swallows audibly. The wife swipes quickly at her eyes.

“When has your intellect ever given you a moment of happiness, of true happiness? Doesn’t every loving parent want a better life for their child?”

The Andersons look at each other and nod, almost imperceptibly. Their shields lie shattered at their feet.

——–//——–

Catherine Mainland is an educator and writer who moved to North Carolina from her native Scotland in 2001. She has published short fiction in The Literary Hatchet (“The Transplant”) and Dark Yonder (“The Local”) and essays in BarBar (McGonagall’s Elephant”) and Across the Margin (“The Five Stages of Going Out of Business”). She lives in a swamp with her husband and an embarrassment of felines.