Sarah Chen never imagined silence could be this loud. The birthing chamber murmured with faint breaths of air, its walls glowing white without seams, as if she had been swallowed by a giant egg. No beeping monitors, no shouted commands, no rush of urgency. Only a low pulse that kept time with her body, so precise it felt like the room itself was breathing for her.
She lay reclined on the cushioned surface. It shifted with her, warming where her muscles tightened, cooling when her breath grew shallow. There was no pain—just a rolling pressure, the sensation of something loosening inside her, a river choosing a path downhill.
“You’re progressing well,” the medtech said from her side. His voice was soft, but his hands never moved. The console in the wall glowed faintly, its adjustments silent, invisible. He was there more as ritual than necessity.
Sarah nodded, though her throat was tight. She thought of the old recordings she’d watched as a child: women screaming, clutching sheets, their bodies tearing under the weight of what they carried. Heads too large, pelvises too narrow, chance always looming like a shadow. That world was gone.
Now it was easy. Easier than she’d ever dared imagine.
Still, she felt the ghost of pain. Not in her body, but in her mind, a phantom from history.
In the lounge beyond the glass wall, Jun pressed his palms together and rubbed them hard, as if friction might burn away his nerves. Through the translucent partition, he could see Sarah’s silhouette. She looked calm, as if she were resting, not laboring.
“She doesn’t even need me,” he muttered.
The nurse beside him smiled the kind of smile that had been practiced into politeness. “She’ll want you after.”
Jun wasn’t convinced. Everything was effortless now. Safety was engineered. Even thought itself—outsourced. Children were born small-headed and bright-eyed, their minds already wired to the Grid before they could form a cry. No more desperate gamble for intelligence. No more need for trial, error, or teaching.
What was left for parents, except to hold them until the system took over?
Sarah’s breath caught. A surge of warmth rolled through her belly and then lifted away, like a tide pulling back. A new weight replaced it.
The chamber hushed.
When she opened her eyes again, something small lay against her stomach, swaddled in soft fabric.
Her daughter.
Sarah’s arms trembled as she lifted the bundle closer. The baby’s head fit in her palm, round and astonishingly light. The skin was smooth, untouched, the skull so small it seemed unfinished. She searched the tiny face—eyes shut, lips pursed, chest rising in delicate rhythm.
“She’s… smaller than I thought,” Sarah whispered.
The medtech glanced at his console. “Cranial volume within optimal range. Interface latency will be near zero.” His tone was clinical, detached.
Sarah barely heard him. She touched her daughter’s temple with the tip of her finger. The baby stirred, eyelids fluttering open.
The eyes did not wander or blink blindly. They fixed, immediately, on Sarah’s face. Too direct, too knowing. Behind them, she sensed the faint shimmer of something vast—a net unfurling, threads already humming with answers she herself would never be able to provide.
Sarah’s chest tightened. Relief filled her. And dread.
The glass door whispered open. Jun stepped inside, hesitant, as if afraid he might disturb a spell.
“She’s here,” Sarah said. Her voice cracked. She angled the baby toward him.
Jun crouched beside her. His hands hovered, then settled on Sarah’s shoulder. He looked at the child’s small, perfect head. “She doesn’t look like she had to fight for anything,” he murmured.
Sarah let out a short, brittle laugh. “Neither did I.”
The baby’s eyes stayed open, dark and unblinking. Not the blank confusion of an infant, but the stillness of something already busy listening elsewhere.
Jun swallowed. “Do you think she’ll ever need us?”
Sarah brushed her thumb over the baby’s cheek. The skin was impossibly soft, but there was no resistance in the child’s gaze, no question asked of her. Just absorption, instant and complete.
“She’ll need us to hold her,” Sarah said finally. The words felt smaller than she wanted them to be.
Jun nodded, though his jaw was tight. His hand lingered on Sarah’s shoulder, but his eyes stayed on the baby, as if searching for something hidden just beneath the surface.
The baby blinked once. A flicker passed through her gaze—too quick, too sharp. Then she turned her face into Sarah’s chest, quiet and warm.
Sarah pulled her closer, arms curling tight, as if the pressure of her body alone might shield her child from the vast lattice already waiting inside her head.
And then she said nothing more.
Curious how much is AI? Read the outputs here.