The Precipice
by
Gregory Norris

I use my children. They anchor me at the edge of the moral precipice. Their innocence keeps me innocent.

'Did you wear your protection suit again today, Daddy? Did you? Did you wear your protection suit?'

'Yes. Yes I did.'

'Tell us!'

They are my control. They keep me within my limits.

Elizabeth is seven. She has her mother's perception in her eyes, her father's curiosity in her fingertips. Her instinct is to explore the tiny details of her surroundings: the electronics in the air conditioners, the ecology of the insects beneath the sink, the components in her toys.

David is four. He's loud. He hits things, and kicks them, and runs into them. He can throw very hard.

'Tell us!'

'I spent the morning installing new software in my computer. I only wore my suit after lunch.'

Hearing about the protection suit is their favourite. It's understandable, I suppose. They play at dressing up, in pretend suits with saucepans for helmets and plastic bags for gloves.

'I wore my suit all afternoon -'

'- Were you making antidote?'

'Yes -'

'Antelope!' shouts David. 'Antelope!'

'No, antidote. An-ti-dote. And afterwards I stood in the special shower, with my suit still on. I kept it on till I was dried by the ultra-violet lights. Elizabeth, you know what the ultra-violet's for?'

'Yes! It kills the germs, doesn't it Daddy? It kills all the germs dead.'

'That's right. Now, bedtime.'

I tell them everything. Everything they will understand and plenty more they won't. Even classified information.

They are my control.

Elizabeth helps David to undress and put on his favourite pyjamas and makes him brush his teeth. He can be very obedient with her. I cuddle him and read him half a story, he always falls asleep fast. Outside the summer heat is intense and I check the air conditioners.

I can hear Elizabeth brushing her hair. She's growing it longer now. The short-hair fashion has died among small girls, so it seems.

Myra never wore her hair long. I wonder for a moment what she'd have looked like. But though I can still picture her face, I can't imagine different hair.

'I can check my emails before going to sleep, Daddy? And chat, if Charlotte's awake?'

'Yes, OK. But only till eight thirty.' I set her PC to lock her out in twenty minutes. Pausing outside the door, I listen. She talks about animals with her best friend, discussing the pictures they're sending each other.

I take a deep breath, to calm myself.

My children will save me. I won't be guilty - not if I can come home and face them and tell them all I've done that day. If the Nazis had done that, I reason, they would have kept themselves within moral bounds. They would have limited their actions, according to the scrutiny of their children. Imagine it, an SS guard coming home, his children asking 'What did you do today, Daddy?' He would have been forced to do anything to save himself from saying, 'I gassed a hundred children and put their bodies in the furnace, now say a prayer to thank the Führer before bedtime.'

If I can tell my children all I do, I'm morally safe. If one day I can't honestly face them . . . Then I've crossed the line.

I check they have clean clothes for tomorrow and the necessary disks in their school bags. I use Myra as my other check. If she's looking down on us, I think, is there anything she'd criticise me for? Have I done all I can for David and Elizabeth today? Anything to plan, organise, talk about with them?

No, I decide. They're up to date with health checks, school is progressing well, they have the books and toys they need.

I watch the news for five minutes. It no longer has an impact on me. I head to my study and log-on, for a few more hours work.

*

Because of Myra, everyone at the lab assumes my political stance. Other urgently need to prove their commitment to the cause, they talk loudly, discussing the news in the appropriate way. But I just slip by the suspicious gazes, like a soldier with a Purple Heart. He's more fanatical than anyone, I see them thinking. Because of what happened to his wife.

Yet if forced to prove my dedication I would struggle, indeed I might be careless enough to be considered a security risk. For Myra's death did not lead me to vengeance or rage. Instead, it pulled me into fatalism, a calmer acceptance of these waning days.

Once I sat down and thought about the odds. There were the thousands of tiny decisions that led to her being in New York on Detonation Day. Her plans could have altered at any point, she could have missed it by a week, a day, an hour. And then there were the thousands of events that determined the time and place of detonation. If they'd chosen a different target, if the ship had been delayed in the Suez canal, if they'd been slower into New York harbour . . .

Bad luck. The ultimate in bad luck.

But then I considered the odds against ever having met Myra in the first place. The meandering courses of our lives brought us both to Hyannisport on that cool September evening, and all followed. Fate, chance, intervention of a deity: whatever, it gave us Elizabeth and David. Or rather, now she's gone, gave me Elizabeth and David.

New York changed all my perceptions. Others at the lab would be unable to comprehend it, but Myra's death did not bring hatred. Hatred is a sophisticated emotion, it needs energy, it needs assertiveness. It is absent in the pictures of the refugees - these people have reached a point of such desperation that their humanity has been stripped down to its inner core. There is only one thing left when exhaustion has taken all else and it is not hatred.

No, the inner core of humanity is acceptance. Acceptance of our suffering and death. Too exhausted to love or to hate or to fight or to smile, the faces staring at the TV cameras are calm. These pitifuls have been pushed and pulled and dragged into a fully passive state.

I think if you could watch them in their descent, you would see the emotions stripping away en route to this inner core. First goes happiness and contentment, the joy that comes with the freedom to make one's own choices. There is then hatred, hatred of the enemy and the circumstances that stole away the freedom. As the body becomes more emancipated and the mind grows tireder, hate dissolves. Pride and dignity linger a while, then love is the last to go, driven out by absolute desperation.

The world is currently stuck on the hatred stage. It will pass. It will dissolve as the human race becomes more exhausted.

I lost my hate long ago. But I still have my pride, my determination to keep to moral safety. I must cling to this, keep on the right side of the line.

*

Elizabeth sits silently, watching the Nickelodeon version of the news.

Big issues have never interested her. When we were expecting David, Myra and I tried to talk to her about the concept of a new life, a new person about to come into the world. We spoke of love and families and what consciousness meant, about ideas of God and reincarnation.

She wasn't interested. She wanted to know how much the baby would weigh and what sort of tests they'd do at the hospital and how many times a day he would feed.

It is the same even today. She struggles in understanding global issues and quickly flees into the details.

'I thought Japan was on our side,' she says, staring at the screen.

'Yes, they are.'

'But why did they do it, if they're on our side?'

I hold her tight, sitting behind her so she doesn't see my face. I try to explain and make a clumsy job of it and her confusion increases. She's too smart. She won't accept that bad things done by the enemy are bad, but bad things done by us are OK. I shift the conversation into "how" and we both become more comfortable.

She understands the principals of nuclear reactions well. But then, she does have a personal interest.

'Hmmn. Boosted fission.' She switches off her TV. She appears to be fine.

But she goes to play with her old toys, toys that are now David's. I've noticed this before, in adults as well as children. Regression into a more childish state is everyone's favourite comfort.

Later that night I have a craving for chocolate ice cream.

*

Each evening I check their disks, seeing for myself what they did at school that day. It always worries me that I can never quantify how much they know. When Elizabeth was three, seeing her baby brother for the first time, I knew precisely the extent of her knowledge. Her mind was a subset of my own - I knew her experiences, her language, her emotions. Then, a week later, she suddenly said 'Baby David only drinks milk. Because he hasn't got any teeth. When he's got teeth he'll eat food. That's called weaning.'

I was surprised. I didn't know where she'd learnt the word, who'd explained the concept. I realised she was now an individual, learning on her own.

Now, aged seven, her understanding is a mystery to me. What has she learnt at school, from Grandma, over the internet?

'Daddy, we're collecting clothes for the refugees, at school. Can I take some?'

'Yes of course. We'll go through yours, picking out anything you don't wear. And there's all David's baby clothes.'

'Good.' She is sitting motionless, deep in thought.

I busy myself laying the table. I feel hollow inside, the same way I was in the months of grieving for Myra. Trying not to think about the torment, but having to concentrate so hard on not thinking that the opposite occurs. It is as if loss and despair has commanded every pathway in the brain.

'Daddy, California is a long way away, isn't it?'

'Oh yes, on the other side of the country, the west coast, we live on the east coast, it's a long way away, ever so far.'

'So we're safe here then.' She looks around, as if imagining what it would be like to flee home.

'Oh yes, we're safe, don't worry, we're safe.'

I'm glad David is too young to think about refugees.

*

As the world ebbs I find myself thinking of abstract, impractical matters. The big issues of existence. The big questions of humanity.

It was not so much our greed, I decide. More our childish competitiveness. Not "I want" but "I want more than you". Like Elizabeth and David when there are five cookies in the tin - no matter that they're not hungry, that they cannot even finish their second - they must squabble for the extra one. "More than you" means winning, it means a higher status, and status is above all else in the things we desire. Thus the planet reached its peak, sated with luxury but still demanding more. And, when there were no more extra cookies to take, "I want more than you" swiftly became "You must have less than me".

David illustrated it for me today. He took the cookie from Elizabeth's plate and threw it to the floor and stamped on it, while cramming his own into his mouth.

He was sent to bed early. But looking at his face, I know he thought, "At least she lost."

For the planet, the outcome will be a little different. But I saw that same expression on Dr Hallum's face. "At least they'll lose."

It was at a simulation of a bio-attack on the mid-western states. A well-designed virus with a 24 hour life span, delivered effectively. Obviously there was no defense, something even the army generals around the table recognised.

A very young general, thirty five perhaps, with a face used to smiling, asked the question. 'But how can something like that be made? How can it live for only a single day?'

The question was directed at me. 'Viruses have RNA instead of DNA, and RNA is much easier to manipulate. At this lab we do just that, to create the vaccines and antidotes. The exercise assumed they changed the ageing genes, so the virus would live just as long as required. Engineer the disease to disappear after a day . . .'

He finished the sentence for me. 'And your army can enter the deserted cities safely.'

I saw eyes flicking across to Dr Hallum.

'A 24 hour super-virus is the weapon they'd choose?'

'They can't use genetically-targeted bio's. Because of our ethnic diversity. So this instead?' I shrugged.

They made no effort to hide their expressions. "We could use both. We want both." Nothing was said while they stole glances at Dr Hallum, who stared at the ceiling, his arms folded. "At least they'll lose."

I stayed silent, recognising the futility of words against the torrents of hatred. I made my decision, I am a passive-fist, not a pacifist: I would only resist if brought against my limit, otherwise I'd sway in the shifting tides. My limit is where I can no longer tell my children.

*

'Do you think we'll ever have a President again?' asks Elizabeth.

'Oh yes, I expect so. When it's all over.'

'Charlotte's Daddy thinks we're much better off now, without a President.'

'Yes. Yes, a lot of people say they think that.' She does not recognise my precise meaning.

'Charlotte's Mummy comes from Chicago. She was crying.'

I stay silent. There is nothing to say to that.

'Where did Mummy come from?'

Elizabeth talks of her mother freely and openly. She tells David a lot about her. David listens, intrigued, and looks at the photos.

'From Norfolk. Norfolk, Virginia.'

The idea of death seemed easy for Elizabeth to grasp, aged four. Mummy had gone away and wasn't coming back. Nothing more to it.

I struggled. In the absence of a body, death is too metaphysical a concept. I believed Myra would return, walking in and telling an exciting story of having left New York just in time. Many nights I dreamed just that.

At least she had no knowledge of the event, only two miles from detonation. The EM pulse travelling at the speed of light destroyed the neurons of her consciousness in less than a hundredth of a second. Far too quickly for her to feel the searing heat.

'You look tired, Daddy. Tired and sad.'

'Not too tired for me to tickle you, though -'

'Got to catch me first!'

We play, she laughs, David comes charging in and I tickle him too. I can face my children, my conscience still survives.

*

It is as if the entire continent has broken loose, shaking the great mass of humanity to and fro. The crawling convoys of cars fleeing south watch the endless stream of those fleeing north. They scramble for footholds, and having found none they exchange places, trying again where another has likewise failed. And on all other continents, allied and enemy alike, there are the same shifting movements, the human millions discarded like water slopping over the edges of a shallow tray.

New York was the beginning. It was like rats around a dying wolf. Starving, eaten away by internal cancers, the wolf still had the appearance of being strong and fierce. Until New York, the first rat bite. A hard, vicious bite. Then the others realised the wolf's decay and plunged in, sharing the pleasure of ripping the flesh apart.

But the wolf will take the rats with it, down into the abyss.

*

'I don't want another injection,' David screams. 'I don't want it.'

'You must,' said Elizabeth. 'It's a vaccination, isn't it Daddy?'

'I had vac-in-ation last week. Don't want another one.'

Last week's injection gave David a slight fever and he still blames me. This is the problem with using only partially tested vaccines. A small risk that an unexpected reaction will occur.

But he has recovered and is back to his noisy obstinate self. And in any case it is better to accept a small unknown risk than a large known danger.

'David,' I say. 'These are special injections. No other children get them. Daddy makes them himself, at work.'

'Don't want it.'

I speak to him, in my strict voice. He knows it is inevitable. But by kicking up a fuss he is creating a bargaining chip, to be cashed in for candy and cuddles.

I give him the injection and let him cry for a moment. Then I pay up and he sucks a lollipop, having been promised cake and a later bedtime.

Elizabeth is a very different child. She rolls up her sleeve and watches with interest as the needle pierces her skin. A frown briefly crosses her face when the cold liquid enters her vein.

'Do you wear your protection suit when you make the vaccine?'

'That's right. I must always wear the suit. Because I have to test the vaccines, try them out on the germs.'

She is silent for many minutes more, holding her arm. I sometimes wonder if I'm doing the right thing, being so open with her, answering truthfully her every question. I admit to myself that I am shielding David more, taking advantage of his lesser curiosity.

Is it morally right to use Elizabeth as my control, to expose her to knowledge of these things? She's a clever girl. One day soon she'll recognise a lab to create vaccines by splicing RNA could just as easily create new killers.

But I can answer her honestly. If I can always tell her, I'll know I've not crossed the line.

*

The sunsets are beautiful now, the deepest, purest red.

'It's so pretty,' says Elizabeth. We enjoy the sight together.

In fact, the atmosphere is so heavy with dust there is an orange haze even at noon. Proof in the heavens of mankind's ultimate evil.

Well, penultimate. Mustn't forget Dr Hallum and his silent little team.

'Red sky at night, shepherd's delight,' Elizabeth says.

The new rhyme is too easy. Red sky at noon...

*

'Charlotte's going away. With her Mummy and Daddy. They're going on a boat, to try and get to Argentina.' Elizabeth's hair is now very long and she interweaves it through her fingers as she speaks. 'I won't be able to email her when she's on the boat.'

'No. I think it's David's bedtime, don't you?'

She looks at me, very solemnly. 'You look tired again. Shall I read to him tonight?'

'Yes, if you like. Yes, thank you.'

I stand by the window, staring out over the houses of the city. When I go to her room, Elizabeth is already in bed. 'He went to sleep OK.'

'Good.' I put my arm around her and she curls up against me.

'You never tell us what you do at work these days. Were you making vaccines again?'

'No . . . not today. No, I'm working for Dr Hallum now.'

'So what did you do?'

Her hair smells of shampoo and she is relaxed in my arms. My child, so gentle, so fragile. 'I worked on . . . I can't really explain, you wouldn't understand it.'

'But did you wear your protection suit?'

'Yes, Elizabeth. Yes, I wore my protection suit.'