No Strings Attached: April

When April first arrived at the Isolation Laboratories, she was only nine months and 20 minutes old. A soft blindfold had been slipped over her eyes at birth, and her mother had been able to hold her for one, brief moment before the nurse gently took her away and into another room.

"What will happen to her?" April's mother asked. Her eyes were large with love and fear.

"I can't tell you," the nurse said, "Its classified information. But I can assure you that your daughter will be treated with the best care and attention the country can provide."

"Will I ever see her again?"

"Perhaps. We don't know at this stage."

April's mother lay back in the bed and wept quietly. She deeply regretted ever having signed the papers. Nothing could compensate for the loss of her child, not even the million dollars she had received. Now April was the property of the Government, and she would stay that way until she was 21.

---

"April?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you well?"

"I guess. How about you?"

"Don't be cheeky. And please say 'yes', not 'yeah', it sounds crude."

April ignored the high-pitched, child-like voice.

For nine years she had lived in the Complex without seeing another human. Her companions had been voices, and songs, and music. Her play-mates had been toys. She had been suckled by a robot and washed by remote-control showers. Her place of residence was a series of rooms, all brightly decorated and plastered with pictures. She knew nothing else.

"You didn't eat much of your breakfast this morning?" said the voice.

"Not hungry."

"Would you like something else?"

"No."

"Do you know what the time is?"