Delete

Delete(M. R. Kornreich) DELETE

Jann Goetchius stepped out of his house one morning in his newly pressed navy blue business suit, his polished to perfection leather shoes, his snow white button down collared shirt, and a silk tie. He closed his eyes and took in a breath of the cool spring air. Mr. Goetchius walked down the brick path leading to his driveway where his electric self-running black sports car had been charging since 8:00 the night before. As he did this he felt his stomach go queasy and his legs begin to shake. He unplugged his car and cautiously slid into the driver’s seat, careful not to rumple his suit.
Mr. Goetchius then pressed a trembling finger to a green button and said in a loud and audible tone, “1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW, Washington, DC!”
A woman’s voice was projected from the speakers of the car. “Good morning
Mr. Goetchius. The weather forecast for today, March 23, 2097 is sunny with a high temperature of 52 degrees Fahrenheit and a low temperature of 46 degrees Fahrenheit. Do you wish for me to take you to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW, Washington, DC?” Mr. Goetchius knew that the fluid, rhythmic voice had been engineered to perfection.
“Yes. I am ready.” He said “I am ready” in a quivering tone. He strapped himself to the car and placed his arms on the armrests and felt the car vibrate and start to pull out of the driveway. Mr. Goetchius felt as if he were dreaming as he glided down the street in his car. It wasn’t a very long drive; the White House was only a few blocks from his house. He passed all the elegant Greek styled buildings, knowing they were there, and acknowledging their beauty and grandeur without really looking at them. He had been snared by his thoughts. Why would President Stiver wish to see him? As far as he knew, he was just a typical middle class American man who lived a typical life. The woman with whom Mr. Goetchius had spoken to on the phone a week ago had only said that the President wished to speak to him about his job as a molecular biologist. What service could he perform for the President? Though he was well established and had been working in the field of molecular biology for years, he certainly was not the most accomplished or well known scientist.
The liquid chocolate voice freed Mr.Goetchius of his contemplations. “Mr. Goetchius, you have arrived at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW, Washington, DC.” He looked out the window and saw the gates and a security guard standing next to the car door.
“Who are you and what are you here for?” demanded the security guard.
“My name is Jann Goetchius and I have an appointment at 10:00 today with President Stiver.” Mr. Goetchius fumbled through his pocket for a card that had been sent through the mail to him with a letter instructing him to let one of the guards see it and he would be let in through the gates. He handed it to the guard.
“You can follow me Mr. Goetchius,” said the guard curtly. The gates to the White House swung open. Mr.Goetchius felt himself grow faint.
“Make sure you don’t touch or spoil anything while you’re here. The President likes things to be absolutely perfect.”
“I won’t,” replied Mr. Goetchius in a broken up voice. He was so nervous that it took all he had not to collapse on the floor. Adding speaking to that was nearly too much for the poor man. They strode towards immaculate white french doors. The guard opened them and showed Mr. Goetchius in.
“Mr. Goetchius!”, exclaimed perfect President Stiver, “I am so pleased that you could come! Please take a seat over here with me.” The President gestured to the front of the desk where he was seated. Jann Goetchius quickly walked over to the chair and sat down. “Do you know why you’re here?” Mr. Goetchius told him he had been informed that the President wished to speak to him about his job. The President closed his eyes and nodded slowly. “Before I say anything else you must promise me that you will tell no one of what is to pass between us.” Mr. Goetchius stared at him dubiously. In a louder tone the President shouted, “Do you promise!”
“Yes. I promise Mr. President,” replied Goetchius.
“My wife is pregnant with our son. About two weeks ago, Mr. Goetchius, Doctor Blood told me that our son is to be born with cancer.” Mr. Goetchius noticed that President Stiver pronounced the word ‘cancer’ as if it was some sort of deformed, germ infested slug that should never see the light of day. “Cancer Mr. Goetchius, I was hoping that you could fix him. You see I can’t have a son with cancer, it just isn’t normal. It isn’t whole or unblemished.”
“Mr. President, I don’t see how I can help. I’m a molecular biologist. I don’t work with cancer. Even if I did I couldn’t help you. There is no cure!”
“Oh, but you can.”
“Excuse me?”
“I need you to change the DNA of my son.”
“I can’t! It’s impossible! No one has ever done it before! Besides, I don’t believe it is right to change the DNA of a human, especially an infant. I am sure there are many more accomplished scientists who would love the chance to do this, but I have neither the means nor the will for doing this.”
“No, it has to be you,” returned President Stiver surely. “I don’t want word to spread that I have a son with cancer. That’s what would happen if I gave this assignment to any of the big-shot scientists like Professor Elsden or Professor Like. Don’t you see how it could ruin the country’s reputation?” At this point the President was extremely frustrated. His eyes suddenly seemed bloodshot, his previously gelled hair was now tangled, and he was breathing as heavily as a tiger. He was standing up with his hands on the desk before him and was leaning towards poor, trembling Jann Goetchius. In other words, he looked like a madman.
“Forgive me Mr. President; I do not.”
“Let me explain,” the President said cooly,“What if other countries find out about my son? What would they do if they discovered that the son of the President of the United States of America is a weakling? They would think that the country is weak. They might consider us a possible target! Do you understand what you would be doing for the country? Imagine it as a sacrifice for the goodwill of the glorious United States of America. It would be an immense act of patriotism Mr. Goetchius! What do you say now?”. President Stiver extended a steady hand to Mr. Goetchius.
“I don’t know! I can’t say! You must understand that this is one of the most pressuring choices I have ever had to make. I now see that I, of all people, could help my beloved country if I said yes, but I would snap my moral code in half. I need some time to think over it all.”
“Should I send for you next week?”
“Yes”, decided Goetchius, “That would be best.” He was offered tea, but declined it and left the White House. That night was restless and tedious for the man. He dreamed a nightmare. This was his dream.


The hillocks are muddy and drenched in crimson. There are metal-covered humans everywhere. Some humans have black feathers on their helmets. Others have red.There are violent, threatening voices and violent, threatening metallic clashes. The oppressive, foggy air is filled with decaying corpses. Stained, flimsy white tents dot the scene. “Lord Conscience!” a masculine voice calls out. He is attempting to pierce a man wearing a red feather with his sword. “Your men are falling! I think our noble cause shall possess the man by dawn!”
“There you are deceived, Lord Country. Though you have strength, we have wit. He feels that he needs to serve his country. You are right there. However, in the end, it’s every man for himself and every man is controlled by his conscience. Conscience rules the world!” Lord Conscience comes close to driving his sword through his opponent’s stomach.
“Oh no”, returns Lord Country “For every conscience has a strong sense of obligation to the country of the human being it has control of, therefore meaning that Country rules, not Conscience you want-wit!” His sword skims Lord Conscience’s left cheek and red tears emerge and they trickle down from his cheek to his chin. The fighting continues in this way for some time. Finally, Lord Conscience forces Lord Country to the ground. “The man is mine as I said he would be!” The sword makes a deep gash in his chest. He is dead. Conscience wins.


Goetchius awoke. Dreams like this reoccured each night for a week. Sometimes Lord Conscience would prove triumphant, sometimes Lord Country would be victorious in gaining control of ‘the man.’ When the week was over, Jann Goetchius telephoned the President.
“I’ve decided that I have to serve my country, no matter how high the cost.”
“Good. I’m so glad we have patriotic men like you in this country. When will you be able to start?”
“Tomorrow, if it suits you. I just want to get it over and done with.”
“If you need anything, just ask me. I’ll ship over equipment to your laboratory if you happen to need any. By the way, where is your laboratory?”
“It’s located on 2700 F Street NW, Washington, DC 20566 in the building that used to be a Center of the Arts but is now the Center of Science.”
“You mean the Kennedy Center?”
“Yes,” he said,startled. Most people had forgotten that the Center of Science had once been a Center of the Arts named after President Kennedy before the AESA (Arts Elimination for Scientific Advancement) Project that had been voted on twenty years ago.

Life for the next three months was never ending for the molecular biologist. He woke up at 8:30 am each morning, went to his laboratory and tried to come up with a solution to the problem. This might have been easier if the First Lady hadn’t been unwilling to take an injection as she was afraid of all things sharp. He had to create some sort of pill or liquid that would get into her system and change around the genetic pattern of the unborn son. At 6:30 pm he left the laboratory and spent the rest of the night brainstorming so he could just test the next day.
At last Jann was successful. The weary-eyed man presented a small vial of red liquid, instructing the First Lady to drink a milliliter of the concoction every week for a month. In four months a healthy, green eyed, blonde haired baby was born. Nothing was said of Mr. Goetchius’s involvement until the baby was a year old. President Stiver had wanted to make sure that nothing had gone wrong during the change of the genetic pattern before he boasted to the world that an American man had found a cure for cancer by way of genetically modifying an embryo.
One night Jann Goetchius received a call from President Stiver. He hadn’t seen or spoken to the man in a year and was surprised that he hadn’t forgotten about him. “Hello, this is President Stiver calling. Am I speaking with Mr. Jann Goetchius?”
“Yes, I am Mr. Goetchius.”
“I hope you don’t think I have forgotten about your tribute to the country.”
“No, sir,” he lied, “I haven’t.”
“I’m glad to hear of it. Our little Reuben is getting along so nicely now. He has begun to walk and I don’t think he would be able to if it weren’t for you, which is why I want to present a gift to you publicly at a celebration in your honor. I know what you have done will help this country in many ways.”
“Mr. President,” he began, “I really don’t think it is necessary to do so. Please, I don’t want you to make a big fuss over me,” replied Goetchius humbly.
“You sound so ungrateful! After all you’ve been through you deserve it.”
“The celebration will be on November 30th at 6:00 pm. You will be there?”
“I suppose so,” Goetchius said with a sigh.

November 30th came around. The autumn sky was clear and bright and the cool air had a crisp bite to it. Jann was shifting in his seat uncomfortably, wishing he was at home reading a book in his bed. But no, he was seated at a table with the President of the United States and the First Lady. They and the rest of the fifty people invited to the celebration had just concluded an exceptionally good dinner. The flag was brought in and all sang the Star Spangled Banner. Then the President stood and made his way up to the podium where he started a long and dreary speech about the AESA Program and it’s importance to the Country.
Finally, he called Mr. Goetchius up to the podium. “If Mr. Goetchius could come stand with me I would be greatly honored,” said he. Jann Goetchius slowly made his way up to the podium. There was an uncomfortable silence as he walked and was relieved by the applause that broke forth when he took his place side by side with one of the most powerful men in America.
“This man, Jann Goetchius, has successfully changed the DNA of a human embryo,” started President Stiver. A faint, respectful murmur emerged from the audience but then died away quickly when the President gestured them to be silent. “Yes, it is true. My child was to be born with cancer and I called upon Mr. Goetchius, who works as a molecular biologist, to change the DNA of the unborn child. At first I think he was a bit skeptical that it would work but he decided that he had the ability to do it.” At this point Jann felt as if he was a criminal in court. “To think that he has changed the fate of the human race. Now we can change the DNA of other children that could be born with diseases like cancer and make them right!” Mr. Goetchius had been correctly accused of changing human fate. He felt horrible about it. How could he have let himself do such a thing? He had considered doing it night and day for a week and he was still unsure of himself? No, he thought, he was more sure than ever now. He had never been completely confident before now. He realized he was a criminal and should be punished. He was being praised instead. “I would like to thank him by presenting him with this silver medal. Inscribed on it is ‘Praised be the ones who honor Country over all’. Bow your head Mr. Goetchius”. He hung his head in shame and accepted his trophy. The audience was pleased. It roared.
Then Jann Goetchius did an odd thing. He ran. He ran down the aisle, out the door, and into the street. They tried to stop him but could not. Even when he was out of sight of the building he ran faster still. He ran to the Center of Science and into a room with a machine with the power to erase certain memories. Goetchius tried to remember when it all started. It must have been two Marches ago. He typed in March 16, 2097, pointed a scanner at his his head, and clicked erase with confidence he had never felt before.