28 Months later

The office in 10 Downing Street smelled of beeswax, old money, and a faint, incongruous hint of antiseptic hand gel. Prime Minister Liz Bust did not merely occupy the room; she had conquered it. Where her predecessor had huddled behind the Resolute Desk like a man awaiting his own execution, Bust sat with the imperious posture of a queen holding court.

Across from her, Dr. Mumford was a man transformed. The timid, sweating academic was gone, replaced by a figure of gaunt intensity. His eyes, once hidden behind nervous blinks, now shone with the fervent light of a prophet whose predictions had all come terrifyingly true. He clutched a thick dossier to his chest like a holy text.

"The numbers, Prime Minister," Mumford began, his voice stronger now, laced with an authority that two years of unprecedented power had bestowed.

"Liz, Dr Mumford," the Prime Minister corrected him with a warm, matronly smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "After all, we're beyond formalities. You’re the architect of Britain’s future. I’m just the… head mason." She gestured for him to continue, the movement causing the tasteful silk of her blouse to strain ever so slightly. Her public image, the "attractive older woman with a heart (and other assets) of gold" was a carefully crafted weapon. The weekend volunteer shifts at the Chelsea Clinic, always conveniently photographed, had skyrocketed her approval ratings. The fact she was ruthlessly competent was the electorate’s unexpected bonus.

"Of course… Liz," Dr. Mumford said, the informality still feeling dangerous. "The birth rate is climbing. Steadily. But more importantly, we have achieved a zero percent child mortality rate. Not a single congenital defect recorded in the past eighteen months."

Liz’s smile became genuine. That was the headline. That was the soundbite that would play on the evening news, soothing a nervous public. The "Project Mumford and Son's" babies weren't just being born, they were being perfected. A generation of flawless, state-sanctioned children of every race and colour.

"The genetic screening is working perfectly," Mumford continued. "We eliminate any undesirable traits long before implantation. We are, for the first time in human history, eradicating chance from the equation of birth."

"Excellent, Simon. Truly. The people need to hear this." She steepled her fingers. "Now. The other matter. The… supply issue."

Mumford’s triumphant expression tightened. "Ah, yes. We’ve hit a… a physiological ceiling. Male fatigue. Psychological burnout. The clinics are running 20-hour shifts, but the output per donor is declining precipitously."

"Good God, man, we’ve extended opening hours! We’ve got loyalty cards, for heaven's sake. I’m down there every Sunday, pulling my weight!" Liz said, her voice a blend of outrage and practicality.

"That’s precisely the problem!" Mumford blurted out, then reined himself in. "With respect, Prime Minister, you are a… a novelty. An inspiration. The nurses on the front lines, the career professionals… they’ve been doing this for twenty-eight months straight. The repetition has caused… incidents."

"Incidents?"

"The repetitive strain injuries are one thing. We have a sixty-three percent absenteeism rate due to carpal tunnel syndrome. But it’s more than that. The desensitization is leading to a lack of… finesse." He opened his dossier and slid a grainy photograph across the desk. "Last Tuesday. A Nurse Higgins in Kent. A particularly… vigorous technique resulted in a complete avulsion."

Liz Bust stared at the photo, her prime ministerial composure faltering for a microsecond. "She… ripped it off?"

"Clean off," Mumford confirmed, a strange, clinical gleam in his eye. "The good news is, our surgical teams were able to reattach it. The, uh, bad news is, the reattachment was… successful, but the orientation is now permanently… retrograde in other words it was attached up side down."

"Is the man alright?" Liz asked, a sliver of genuine concern breaking through her political shell.

"Oh, he’s thrilled," Mumford said flatly. "Apparently, he’s achieved a certain self-sufficient notoriety. Apparently he can now go fuck himself."

The Prime Minister stared into the middle distance for a long, silent moment. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked away the seconds. When she spoke again, her voice had changed. It was no longer the warm, clinic-volunteer Liz. It was the voice of a wartime general.

"Then we are no longer running a public health initiative, Doctor. We are fighting a war. And in a war, everyone must do their duty." She stood up, pacing before the window overlooking a quiet, controlled Downing Street. "It’s time for a national draft. The ‘Vital Contribution Act’."

Mumford’s eyebrows shot up. "A draft?"

"Every able-bodied woman over the age of 18 will be conscripted for a mandatory four-week period of National Service at a designated collection clinic. They will be trained, they will serve, and they will contribute to the survival of the species. It will be framed as a civic duty, a patriotic honour. A great leveller."

Mumford’s initial shock melted into a slow, creeping smile. It was a horrifying, brilliant solution. It would solve the labour shortage overnight. It would break the back of the remaining underground resistance by making every woman complicit in the system. It was the final piece of his grand design.

"It's… it's perfect," he breathed, his mind already racing with the logistics. "The public will—"

"The public will do as they are damn well told, Doctor," Liz Bust said, her tone leaving no room for argument. She turned her back to him, looking out at the street. "We’ve coddled them, we’ve incentivized them, and we’ve scandalized them. Now, it’s time to draft them. The future isn't just coming, Doctor. We are going to milk it into existence."

Dr. Mumford simply nodded, the full, terrifying weight of their project settling upon him. It was all coming together exactly as he’d planned.