28 years later

The sun was a molten gold coin sinking into the indigo sea off Monte Cristo. Dr. Mumford, now silver-haired and tanned the colour of teak, sighed with a profound, bone-deep contentment. The only sound was the gentle lap of waves against the hull of his superyacht, The New Genesis, and the soft, efficient movements of the nurse.

She was, like all of them now, a vision of perfected femininity. Her name was Lyra, a name chosen from a state approved list for its melodic elegance. Her hair was a cascade of sun-kissed platinum, her eyes a deep, intelligent cerulean. And her body was a living testament to his genius, tall and statuesque, with legs that seemed to go on forever, culminating in the firm, impossibly high swell of her buttocks. But her most striking feature, the one he had specifically coded for, was her chest. Her breasts were magnificent, full and heavy and defiantly pert, their perfect shape visible beneath the thin, white silk of her uniform. They were a global standard now, a biological signature of the new human race.

Lyra finished tucking his softening penis back into his linen trousers, her movements practiced and reverent. A single, pearly droplet of his release glistened on her high cheekbone, a tiny badge of her service. Without a hint of shame, her pink tongue snaked out, long and deft, and she licked the side of her face clean with a slow, sensual relish. A faint, sweet smile played on her lips. The genetic predisposition for a fondness for the taste of semen had been one of his more elegant, peace-giving modifications.

“Thank you, Lyra,” Mumford said, his voice a relaxed rumble.

“The pleasure is always mine, Doctor,” she replied, her voice a husky melody. She leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead before gliding silently below deck.

Alone, Mumford looked out at the breath-taking horizon and allowed himself to review his life’s work.

It had been him. Of course, it had been him. The ‘rogue COVID booster’ was a cover story fabricated by a terrified government. He had engineered the sterility virus in a lab outside Zurich, a precise, target-seeking bullet that left every other bodily function intact. The panic, the desperation, the global crisis, it had all been the necessary fertilizer for his beautiful, brutal solution to bloom.

And bloom it had. He had not just saved humanity, he had saved it from itself. Every child born in the last twenty-five years was intended, wanted, and perfect. The crude, messy, and violent lottery of natural conception was a relic of a darker age. There was no poverty. The economy was now based on the equitable distribution of the most valuable resource, life itself, and the poorest nations had become partners, not pawns. There was no hunger. The population, though reduced by a necessary two billion, was sustainable. Climate change was in full retreat, its primary driver (rampant, unchecked human consumption) now a managed variable.

There were no more wars. What was there to fight over? Men, finally freed from the tyrannical, distracting urgency of their own testosterone and granted effortless, daily release, had become docile, cooperative, and creative. The concepts of sexual **** and violent crime were now historical footnotes, studied by psychologists like ancient curses.

The gender role reversal had been a shock, but a beneficial one. Women, naturally the selectors and nurturers, now dominated society, pursuing men for companionship and intellectual stimulation. The world was quieter, ****, more rational.

He thought of the children. His children. All of them were his children. Genetically scrubbed of cancer, Alzheimer's, and congenital defects. The next generation had a life expectancy pushing 150 years. They were taller, stronger, smarter, and more beautiful. A race of demigods, born from his vision.

A gentle chime sounded from the yacht’s console. A notification. Another Nobel Prize. This one for Lasting Peace. He smiled. It would look good next to the ones for Medicine, Economics, and Biology.

The sun finally dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in strokes of violet, rose, and brilliant orange. It was a perfect sunset for a perfect world.

Dr. Mumford, the architect of the future, the saviour of humanity, the quiet god of a new genesis, took a sip of his exceptionally old Scotch and watched the day end, utterly at peace. He had played God, and God, it turned out, had done a flawless job.