WebNovels

Chapter 6 - Chapter 5: The Measure of Obedience

Joseph Langford — June 2114

Everything has to be immaculate. Mr. Carter will notice any imperfection — a smudge on a glass, a crease in a napkin, a slightly misaligned fork. He always does. I order the staff to polish the stemware again and again, running a cloth along the rim until my own reflection stares back at me, sharp, correct, precise.

My late wife used to tell me not to try so hard with him. "My father will never be impressed, Joseph," she'd say. Perhaps she was right. But she's gone, and his influence remains. I need his approval, or more accurately, his funding. Without it, GenX stagnates. I will not let years of work collapse because an old man disapproves of a table setting.

The house hums with preparation: the low thrum of filtration units, the faint sizzle from the kitchen, the occasional creak of floorboards as staff scurry about. I straighten a chair for the fourth time before moving to the window.

Outside, the light begins to thin — a dull amber bleeding into grey. Across the street, I see Noah, my pride, my future, walking with Finn… but not Kai.

Where is the other one?

My jaw tightens. Kai should be with them. I scan the street again, irritation mounting — and finally, he appears. Running. Half-dead, stumbling down the road, hair plastered to his forehead, gasping for air when he catches up.

Pathetic.

Finn waves goodbye, and a moment later the door opens. I do not move from the window.

"Welcome home, Noah," I say, studying him. "I assume school was… productive."

He simply nods. Exactly as expected. Speaks little, reserves his words for moments that matter — a boy who understands the weight of precision.

"And Kai," I turn to the other boy.

He freezes, one shoe half off, caught mid-motion as though I appeared from nowhere. "Y-yes, Father?" he stammers, voice tight with unease.

"You didn't walk your brother home."

"I tried, I—"

"I don't want excuses. Go to your room. We will talk about this later."

His face crumples slightly, like a page someone forgot to flatten. He obeys. He always does.

When he's gone, I turn to Noah, who stands calm, collected, unbothered apart from the quick glance he gives Kai as he walks away.

"Are you ready to impress your grandfather tonight?"

"Yes, Father." His voice is steady, controlled. He has learned well.

"Good. Remember what this dinner means. Your grandfather's trust is the key to everything. GenX, Lunex — our work depends on him understanding that we are the ones who will carry humanity forward."

Noah nods. "I understand."

"Go get ready."

He leaves. For a brief moment, I allow myself a breath.

I make my way to my office and freeze — Kai lingers by the door.

"Didn't I send you to your room?" I say, not sparing him a glance as I pass and enter the office.

He shifts, standing at the threshold, uncertain, as if weighing whether he is even allowed to approach.

"Come in. Close the door," I command.

He obeys, tentative, hesitant, like a mouse inching toward a trap.

"You embarrassed yourself today," I say, voice level, precise. "Do you understand how that looks? You can't even escort your own brother home."

"I… I'm sorry, but something happened and I wanted to ask—"

"Sorry doesn't mean anything. Effort means something. Results mean everything. You want to be part of this family, you act like it. Go to your room. Stay there until dinner."

He hesitates, calculating whether to argue further, but finally nods and retreats. I listen to the faint echo of his steps fade down the hall — hesitant, uncertain, lacking the confidence that should be there. What a disappointment.

Mr. Carter arrives exactly on time, as he always does. The old man looks heavier than the last time I saw him, his expression carved into something permanently disapproving. His handshake is limp.

Dinner begins with the usual politeness: conversation circling around GenX projections, the Lunex formula, and the future of the business. I guide it carefully, speaking only when necessary. Mr. Carter respects composure, not enthusiasm.

Noah contributes when prompted — precise, articulate. The boy has a gift for making complexity sound simple. I can almost see his grandfather weighing him and approving.

Kai, meanwhile, sits silent at the far end of the table, eyes down, barely breathing. Better that way. He does not belong in this world of measured intellect and precision.

We were discussing potential improvements to the Lunex formulation when an unexpected variable entered the equation.

Noah turned to his brother. "What do you think, Kai?"

The question introduced a disruption in the conversational algorithm. My stomach tightened — instinctive physiological response to potential error.

Kai blinked. "Me?"

"Yes," Noah said, precise, like a well-tuned processor. "You've been listening. What do you think about ways to optimize Lunex?"

Every eye shifted toward him. I could feel the tension crackling, heavy and electric.

Kai hesitated, calculating — or failing to calculate — whether his input was permissible. I leveled my sternest look, silently willing him to stay quiet. Inevitably, he spoke:

"Why… why does the Lunex have such a high death rate?"

I nearly choked on my drink, glancing at Mr. Carter. His brow furrowed, evaluating.

Noah, predictably, caught the moment perfectly. A faint, unknowing smile flickered across his face. Before the silence could stretch, he intervened:

"Because of genetic complexity. The modification process increases variability. However, if I am able to collaborate with other GenX scientists, we can stabilise outcomes and improve survival probability."

Excellent. Error correction successful.

I released a controlled laugh. "Exactly. No immediate concern. Improvements are underway, and with a participant of Noah's capability, procedural advancement will accelerate significantly."

Mr. Carter's eyes flicked to me — trace approval confirmed. Conversation shifted to funding allocation and optimization of team investment. Noah's contributions statistically enhanced projected efficiency. I nodded, smiled, concurred. Every verbal output calculated, every motion deliberate. Variables managed. Control maintained.

Kai said nothing further for the rest of the evening. Good. Let him remain silent. That was his proper place — a minor variable in a system far too complex for his feeble input. His failure, his hesitation, confirmed what I already knew: some minds are meant to observe, not contribute.

When the door finally closes behind Mr. Carter, the house feels too quiet.

"Both of you," I say. "Office. Now."

They follow in silence. I stand behind the desk, hands clasped behind my back.

"That," I begin, "was an embarrassment."

Noah flinches. Kai keeps still. Interesting reaction.

"You—" I look at Kai. "You undermined me in front of him. Do you have any idea how fragile his approval is? Years of work could have been jeopardized by a child's stupid question."

Kai's lips part, but no sound comes out.

"And you," I turn to Noah, tone softening, "handled it well. You saved us both from further humiliation. I'm proud of you."

Noah bows slightly but remains silent.

"Go on," I say. "Go upstairs."

Noah pauses for a fraction of a second, calculating whether Kai will follow. Once it becomes clear that I have yet to dismiss his brother, he leaves, leaving the variable exactly where I intended.

When the door closes, I let the silence stretch. Kai stands frozen near the desk.

"Come here."

He hesitates, then steps forward.

"On your knees."

His eyes hollow, but he obeys, lowering himself to the floor. I open the top drawer and pull out the ruler — long, flat, polished wood. I hold it out in front of me.

"Hands out. Palms up."

He does as told, trembling slightly. Is he becoming too accustomed to this punishment? Perhaps a modification is necessary.

"You need to learn," I say, calm, detached. "Every action has a consequence. Every failure carries a cost."

I bring the ruler down across his hands. The sound cracks through the room. He flinches but does not cry. I strike again, harder this time. Red marks bloom across his skin.

"Count," I command.

He hesitates. "O-one."

Another strike. "Two."

Again. "Three."

When done, I place the ruler back on the desk and straighten my cuffs.

"You'll think before you speak next time," I say quietly.

He nods, hands shaking.

"Go to your room."

He rises slowly and leaves. The door shuts behind him with a soft click.

I sit at the desk, staring at the empty room. My hands are steady. They always are.

Everything I do is for their future. For perfection. For progress.

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