The Genetic Code

Chapter 11

Kera

I saw it wrong. I'm sure of it.

It's like one of those times when you think you see a person from the corner of your eye, only to turn and find it was just a hanging coat.

Our visual system is too limited to accurately process all of the information that our eyes take in, so it works on the basis of interpretation. On rare occasions, the brain interprets wrongly, causing us to perceive something inaccurately — an optical illusion, a mismatch between the immediate visual impression and the actual properties of the object.

It was only there for a split second, so it could have been that my eyes deceived me in that moment, sending a warped vision to my brain that translated into a corrupted image. Because there is no way that what I saw... what I think I saw, could have been true. A trick of the eyes; a mirage; an optical illusion — that's what it must have been. That's the only possible explanation.

Technically, it's not even scientifically plausible for what think I saw to be true. Two Perfect parents can only produce a Perfect child. That's the way it works. I should know, since it's my regal blood from generations of pure genius women whom cracked the code of the human genes.

I stare out the tinted glass window, watching the buildings whisk by as the limousine whirls down the congested street. The two flags attached to the front bumper of the car, with the Rosamund crest etched across the silk in all its sovereignty, prompt drivers to make way for the long shiny vehicle on the road and let it pass through without issue so it can get where it needs to be; connoting the same kind of significance as the sirens on an ambulance or police car.

A Rosamund woman must be punctual to every appointment she attends, even if its simply returning home from school — Being tardy is for the plebeian.

The limo drives through a narrow stretch of secluded road, lined on one side by freshly trimmed shrubbery and hugging a long stretch of brick wall on the other, which traces to the front gate of the estate. The security attendant stationed at the guard-post raises a thumb over his head in acknowledgement before activating the gate. The tall dark wood retracts sideways and disappears into the adjacent brick, providing a path for the limo to enter the estate.

The car makes a loop around the central fountain, and then pulls up at the entrance of the mansion. My driver exits the limo and scurries towards the other side of the vehicle to pull the door open for me. I fling my handbag into his white-gloved hands and make my way up the steps, past the grand stone veranda, to the front doors. As I lean my head towards the tablet by the left side of the double-doors, a series of beams trace over my face and register my features, automatically unlocking the front doors that swing inward for me to enter.