The image still stood in her mind. For no apparent reason, the memory was shocking. Disgusting! I could never have imagined that butterflies are such ghastly creatures. They always seemed so delicate, so gentle, and so clueless… In truth, they are no better than any scavenger.

The sight of a dead fish being covered with fluttering wings of vibrant and exotic colors left a deep impression on her. Visiting an art museum generally calmed both down, but the photo was the absolute opposite of comforting: The bright contrast between the rays of sun playing and experimenting with all the colors of the palette existent on a butterfly’s wing and the sunken grey eyes covered with the indescribable film made hair stand on end. His face also lost its joyous gleam, but seemed more thoughtful than repelled by the picture. After a moment or two of silence he, though more to himself than to his awaiting friend, finally said: “I’ve read about this before. That there have been observations made about certain types of moths and butterflies licking blood off of wounds and corpses. You see, pollinators, which butterflies are, cannot get all of the minerals needed for survival from nectar and pollen; some of them come from different sources, which sometimes include body fluids of other animals.”

“That is no justification for devouring the dead! – she retorted angrily – I will never be able to not cringe when I see another butterfly. Pretending to be innocent and heavenly and in truth being cold-blooded carnivores!”

“Perhaps they are not pretending.”

The anger in her face was partially replaced by confusion and puzzlement. Preventing her question, he continued: “You said that butterflies pretend to be innocent and naïve. What if they do not know that the substance being licked is blood? What if all they know is the need to follow the smell that seems so taunting and ingest some of it. How can we be so sure that the winged creatures understand fully the extent of their actions and that if the veil of ignorance was to be lifted they would not be disgusted themselves?”

The smile was back on her face: “I see what you are trying to say.” Then, after a thoughtful pause, she added, “How about we go to the botanic gardens next time? There, butterflies only feed on flowers.

* * *

Evelyn carefully examined the bandages on her fingers. She made sure that she didn’t miss that annoying spot on the inside of her index finger: it hurt, especially after a day of monotonous movement of the needle. After an injection or two, the pressure may be hardly noticeable, but the skin starts bleeding if the thin strip of metal rubs it for five hours. Pride swelled in Evelyn’s chest when she finished her ingenious move: covering the weak spots with a thick layer of cloth. First hesitating whether or not to kiss the dearest person to her on the forehead, she walked out of the room she shared with her mother. The small woman was asleep, so she decided not to take the chance of waking her up.

Some say that mornings in this part of the city are gloomy, but from Evelyn’s perspective, they are quite pleasant. She jumped onto her old bicycle and took off. Her favorite part of the path she took to get to work was the stretch of hundred meters or so that run by the city park, so she made sure to slow to nearly a complete halt when she reached the black iron cast fence. Suddenly, what luck, a butterfly wound its path through the bars and fluttered by her face for several seconds. Evelyn even got the chance to look up close at it: not too colorful or big, it was grey with small orange spots on the rims of the wings. A memory woke up in her mind; something connected to the words she heard yesterday at work; something about a butterfly and a lot of other strange words. But the memory wiggled away and lost itself in the fantasies of her brain. Like a small girl, Evelyn smiled as she said “good bye” to the small creature and kept riding.

Finally she got to work: the building was tall, but she never really had the chance to see any floors above the second, for she was a Seventy and did the basic work she was good for. There weren’t too many Seventies in the building along with her, and of those existent she had the highest rank, so Evelyn considered herself very lucky. She passed the door and entered the entry hall; it was hard to not try and read all the different labels there, but Evelyn gave up a long time ago: she was a Seventy, so there wasn’t a way she could ever learn to read.

Once she got to her spot, Evelyn took up her needle. It was shiny and clean, but somehow it seemed evil and ruthless to her. After a moment of watching the light bounce off the metallic surface, she connected the thin elastic tube to the needle and started the injections. The work was not too challenging and required hardly any thoughts. Nonetheless, she went through all of the steps in her head every time: pick up the baby; find the black spot in the back of the neck; inject the needle; wait until the convulsions stop; put the body on the cart. Evelyn always wondered where the sleeping children went, but she never got the chance to see where the personnel took the cart. She knew that the needle must somehow put the tiny bodies into deep sleep, but she still tried to put them down as gently as she could to not wake them up. They never did, of course, but Evelyn guessed it was still important to hum a lullaby to them.

* * *

Mme. Renault patiently led the inspector down every single corridor and quietly stopped every time the short Hundred-Forty stopped to check on a switch or tube. Understanding perfectly well that there was absolutely no way she could escape the mundane safety check, she had no alternative but to keep the Uniform going around the entire building. It was the Company’s fault that she, a Hundred-Eighty, spent a day away from decision making and governing the gigantic machine of the building.  Had the safety precautions not been neglected four years ago, the original edifice, along with the entirety of the city-sector, would not have been turned to ashes by the explosion and the following fire. Renault caught herself tugging on the fine fabric of her sleeve, even though the skin just above her left wrist was cleared of the burnt scar two months ago.  Old habits are hard to break.

At last, they got to the second floor, the last one that day. The short man paused and curiously looked at the euthanasia process. Renault knew exactly what speech was about to emerge, so she closed her eyes tiredly and prepared to listen. “I cannot believe this Seventy is so calmly killing infants! How is it possible to have so little compassion for a human child?”

“You know it as well as I do, Inspector: the Company has full jurisdiction and all of the necessary sanctions to painlessly kill the surplus of the bodies produced. Our society simply cannot afford to take care of individuals that do not have a place in the modern world. And there is absolutely no way to avoid overproduction without the risk of a shortage. The craft of artificial reproduction has not been perfected enough to ensure that every single embryo survives the growth process, which is the reason for the designed excess.”

Mme. Renault spoke as plainly and simply as her superior education allowed, so as to not confuse the man.  Still, she silently took joy in watching him try to put complex structures together as he spoke in an attempt at impressing her. “Yes, yes I understand. I am not at all doubtful of the necessity of the process. It is the lack of empathy in that worker that intimidates me.” With a curious expression of intense thinking, the man paused, trying to remember any more “upper words” that he could use in the conversation. “How can she be so placid while continuously killing hundreds of creatures like herself? And watch: she is even singing as she is doing this. Such a vile and malicious person!”

“She is a butterfly.”

The sentence sounded as though it escaped her lips accidentally. Renault silenced the unborn question with a flick of her wrist. “Don’t you see, sir: She doesn’t understand the effect of her actions, but is simply following the basic directions given to her by the ones above her level of comprehension. Metaphorically speaking, she may be drinking blood absolutely certain that it is water, or not knowing what the fluid is at all.”

Absently smiling, the Secretary of the Department of Artificial Human Production gave a few more moments to the old memory before putting it back into the deepest corner of her consciousness.

Just like a butterfly.