Daughter's First

Flash Fiction by Greg Clumpner

“Control to Base,” a voice crackles on the stolen snowmobile’s radio. “If you fail to respond, we’ll have to send an extraction team.” I must reach the research facility before they do. Nothing else can escape that place.

I jerk the gas handle and race north through freezing winds.

As I near the facility, I pass slender columns of black puffing smoke rising from the offset garage, where I snatched my current ride back in March. I slow to a halt in front of the thick steel exterior hatch intended to keep things in rather than out.

Low static from the radio catches my attention. The muffled voice returns, “If anyone is still there and listening, we’re sending a team at first light. ETA 1100 tomorrow.” I switch it off, apathetic to anything else they might say.

The hatch is slightly ajar, its hinges mangled with blackened streaks extending across the nearby metal surfaces.

I step through the narrow opening. The scent of the sterile air sends chills through my body, a reaction to memory rather than cold. Snaps and pops of ice echo through the familiar empty halls.

I pass the ruined labs on my way to Operations. At the far end of the room, a lone figure sits in front of a shattered monitor, facing away from me. I recognize my father’s thick orange parka and lined gloves strewn about the floor—signs of the last stage of hypothermia. 

I rush forward and whip the chair around. Empty hazel eyes stare back at me from his blued body, wearing nothing but his Hanes.

The monster is dead. 

My work has been done for me, and I can’t tell if I’m relieved or angry that I wasn’t here to give him my kind of goodbye. 

I’m numb. This isn’t the closure I needed.

I reach for a leather-bound journal lying atop the broken communication terminal, untie its stiffened string, and flip through the pages within, skimming only the sections that interest me.

#

April 29,

She’s so beautiful, my baby girl. I’ve waited so long to hold her, yet it feels like just yesterday when she was conceived, when the process was finally successful.

When I heard her first cries, I squealed! The last time I remember making a noise like that was when I was seven, running down to the Christmas tree to find a shiny new bike wrapped with ribbon. Not even the barren glaciers outside can keep this warmth from radiating through me. Everything I did, all the sacrifice, was worth this moment.

I only wish her mother were still here to see her, and hold her, and love her. I’ll have to cherish little Alice enough for the both of us.

#

May 26,

Alice’s first steps and first words came within a day of each other. She pushed herself up and reached her arms out to me as she wobbled on her perfectly chubby legs. Ba-ba wasn’t quite the da-da I hoped would be her first, but I did coax her speech with her formula bottle.

Her development is uncanny. She’s so resilient and has progressed much further than the test animals in this amount of time. She truly is my daughter, but even better than the first.

I’ve ignored my other work to dote on her as much as possible. Her mother would’ve wanted me to make sure Alice knows how much she’s loved.

#

July 3,

Alice is already doing fractions with ease. She can read and write, although I’m careful what materials she has access to. I’ve even had to filter some of the old Dr. Seuss books I had lying around the station. I can’t have any strange notions penetrating her psyche.

She’s consistent with eight-minute miles on the treadmill. At incline, her heart rate escalates, but on flat runs, it never exceeds eighty beats per minute. She’s still no match for me when we kick the soccer ball around the corridors. She tracks my footwork with her eyes but can’t quite keep up. She’ll overtake my old-man skill in no time.

I’ve returned to my work on the animals. I couldn’t keep ignoring it, as much as I want to focus on my new daughter. Alice is so sweet, always wanting to be around me even when I’ve buried my face in monitors. She’ll wrap herself around my leg and try to pry me away. She’s turned into quite the hugger!

Everything has been a complete success. Nothing like her older sister.

#

August 23,

Alice finally stole the ball from me this morning. I’m both filled with pride for her progress and sadness for how quickly the time has passed. So few firsts remain to witness. Each stage of her physical development seems to pass faster than the last. I worry that the rest of her won’t be able to keep up.

My headaches returned. I haven’t felt this way since before Alice’s conception. I try not to let her see my struggle, hiding behind the monitors when I feel one coming on, but she’s too astute not to sense it.

Maybe if it weren’t just the two of us, I could find some time or space to think. But I can’t risk her being around others, not yet, at least. If it’s only us two, nothing can go wrong.

Still, I can’t help but consider, a friend besides her father might do Alice some good. Something social or nurturing would be beneficial. Maybe a friend could help her see the humanity in things.

#

September 17,

It was a mistake to bring in the baby arctic hare. Snowball, Alice she named it. She fed and cared for it for weeks, just like I planned. It slept with her at night, and they were so cute, snuggling together. I don’t know exactly what she did to Snowball, and I don’t have the heart to perform an autopsy on the unfortunate creature.

When she’s around, I force a smile, even when my head is throbbing. I try to make bad jokes and laugh. She needs the levity. I do, too. Her mother was much better than me at making others happy, especially when she wasn’t happy. Her mother would be able to explain all the changes Alice is she’s experiencing, things I never experienced as a man. I can’t comfort her the way her mother would could.

I lie awake at night, thinking about the time before her conception, the loneliness I felt after her mother passed, after I had to dispose of all the others at the station. I absorbed myself in the work, taking on the duties of those half-dozen people, all while searching for a way to bring them back. I ignored everyone who reached out to me, her sister included.

#

October 16,

The cloning process is sound. I don’t know where I went wrong.

Snowball Two, she named the new one. I explained to her what happened with the first Snowball and that she had to be more careful. Hours later, when preparing dinner, I found the poor thing eviscerated in the refrigerator. I didn’t ask her about it or mention it again. I don’t dare upset her.

The outbursts are more frequent. This morning, she used a rolling pin from the galley to smash the communication terminal. I couldn’t say anything, I just kept my head down as I disconnected the terminal’s electricity and swept up the broken glass.

I could escape the station, take a snowmobile, and head south, but what would that mean for her? She would surely follow. I made that mistake once already. If I run south and hide, she’ll find me, or worse, someone innocent. I lie awake, wondering if my first mistake has hurt anyone else. I pray not.

#

October 20,

I can’t stand the sight of her it anymore. This cycle needs to end. I’ll use the fuel from the generators to burn the snowmobiles. There will be no escape this time. With the fuel depleted, the life support systems will fail.

I have to act fast before Control can reach us. Without any communication, they’ll send a team to check on their precious research. I’ll find some way to lodge the hatch doors open to speed up the freezing process and destroy everything. We can’t survive, neither of us. It needs to be exterminated.

If everything goes as planned, this will be my last entry. Don’t repeat my mistakes.

-Dr. Frederick Willamete

#

I flip to the next page. It’s blank. I snatch a pen from a nearby table and scrawl a few words on the page.

Love what you did with the place.

-Your First Daughter, Alice

After dotting the i in my name with a stabbing jolt, I cap the pen and shove it in my snowsuit pocket. I snap the book shut and retie the string before bending down to my father’s level, his frozen eyes staring blankly back at me. My mouth fills with saliva. I want to spit in his face but restrain myself, choking the liquid down instead—no reason to prove him right at this point.

No. Just to spite him, I return his journal. Unable to bend his extremities, I tuck it under his arm as best I can.

One more hunt through the long night, my last chance to clean up my father’s mess. It's time to meet my baby sister.

I walk down the corridor, boots crunching in the invading snow. A happy memory floods my mind, of dribbling the soccer ball, keeping it away from my mother’s toes. Pain sears my temples as the mental image morphs into my hands around her neck, my mother clawing at me and gasping for air.

I don’t regret most things I’ve done—just the one.

My first.