“You aren’t David. Then why did you bring his daughter back to his grave?”
Behind Mark, Lily turned her head and spoke in a voice far too clear for a six-year-old: “I found the way down, Grandpa.”
Mark sent Elena and Lily to the car and descended alone. Past the threshold coiled a spiral staircase of perforated steel, dropping far deeper than any suburban basement had a right to go. Bolted to the stairwell wall, a yellowed placard read: PROJECT ARTEMIS – LEVEL 3 CONTAINMENT. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
THE ARCHIVE OF SHADOWS
The staircase cut through three subterranean levels into a vaulted corridor lined with steel shelving. Hundreds of archival bins, each labeled with a year and a family surname. Mark’s flashlight beam froze on one: 2004 – VANCE.
Inside were photocopied tax returns, utility bills, medical records — photographs of Mark at sixteen, of his mother leaving a pharmacy — and an ultrasound image dated seven years earlier. Typed at the bottom: SUBJECT: LILY VANCE. EMBRYONIC TRANSFER CONFIRMED. LOT 44-B.
“We didn’t use a donor,” Mark whispered. “We did IVF at a certified clinic in Seattle.”
“You did,” a low voice echoed through the hallway speakers. “And you signed the standard liability waiver on page fourteen, paragraph nine. The clause regarding biological material archival and long-term developmental observation.”
At the far end of the corridor, an automated door glided open onto a brilliantly lit observation room. A frail old man sat in a wheelchair before a bank of glowing monitors showing live feeds of every room in Mark’s house.