We don't get many folks reporting in here from your part of the world. The news you report is itself God-awful news at that, but it is nice for once to see somebody from over your way who still has their eyes open, head on tight and not afraid to tell it like it is.

Coincidentally, just within the hour I ran on to an oldie but goldie in PDF, the intro to which really rings true with some of what you suggest with regards to population control, genetic manipulation and such. Okay, you were talking about GM'd crop yield, like corn, potatoes, wheat and such, and this is talking about human crop yields, boy & girl Gammas, Alphas, Betas and the like....... it's hard to believe that it has now been a bit over 30 years ago that this was required reading in high school. Back then we were of course led to believe that this was simply the result of one man's "visionary genius", and we lapped it up as such. However, as I've grown older and a bit wiser in recent years, it has become clear to me that such billing was pure bunkum providing cover for a blinkin blueprint of the future. Correction: there were two blueprints released within a decade or so of each other .... somewhat alternatives, if you will. One favored a bit more towards a warm N fuzzy future, the other favored a bit more towards a bleak and gray future.  

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Chapter One
A SQUAT grey building of only thirty-four stories. Over the main entrance the words,
CENTRAL LONDON HATCHERY AND CONDITIONING CENTRE, and, in a shield, the World
State's motto, COMMUNITY, IDENTITY, STABILITY.

The enormous room on the ground floor faced towards the north. Cold for all the
summer beyond the panes, for all the tropical heat of the room itself, a harsh thin
light glared through the windows, hungrily seeking some draped lay figure, some
pallid shape of academic goose-flesh, but finding only the glass and nickel and
bleakly shining porcelain of a laboratory. Wintriness responded to wintriness. The
overalls of the workers were white, their hands gloved with a pale corpse-coloured
rubber. The light was frozen, dead, a ghost. Only from the yellow barrels of the
microscopes did it borrow a certain rich and living substance, lying along the
polished tubes like butter, streak after luscious streak in long recession down the
work tables.

"And this," said the Director opening the door, "is the Fertilizing Room."
Bent over their instruments, three hundred Fertilizers were plunged, as the Director
of Hatcheries and Conditioning entered the room, in the scarcely breathing silence,
the absent-minded, soliloquizing hum or whistle, of absorbed concentration. A troop
of newly arrived students, very young, pink and callow, followed nervously, rather
abjectly, at the Director's heels. Each of them carried a notebook, in which, whenever
the great man spoke, he desperately scribbled. Straight from the horse's mouth. It
was a rare privilege. The D. H. C. for Central London always made a point of
personally conducting his new students round the various departments.
"Just to give you a general idea," he would explain to them. For of course some sort
of general idea they must have, if they were to do their work intelligently–though as
little of one, if they were to be good and happy members of society, as possible.
For particulars, as every one knows, make for virture and happiness; generalities
are intellectually necessary evils. Not philosophers but fretsawyers and stamp
collectors compose the backbone of society.

"To-morrow," he would add, smiling at them with a slightly menacing geniality,
"you'll be settling down to serious work. You won't have time for generalities.
Meanwhile …"

Meanwhile, it was a privilege. Straight from the horse's mouth into the notebook.
The boys scribbled like mad.

Tall and rather thin but upright, the Director advanced into the room. He had a long
chin and big rather prominent teeth, just covered, when he was not talking, by his
full, floridly curved lips. Old, young? Thirty? Fifty? Fifty-five? It was hard to say. And
anyhow the question didn't arise; in this year of stability, A. F. 632, it didn't occur to
you to ask it.

"I shall begin at the beginning," said the D.H.C. and the more zealous students
recorded his intention in their notebooks: Begin at the beginning. "These," he waved
his hand, "are the incubators." And opening an insulated door he showed them
explained, "at blood heat; whereas the male gametes," and here he opened
another door, "they have to be kept at thirty-five instead of thirty-seven. Full blood
heat sterilizes." Rams wrapped in theremogene beget no lambs.

Still leaning against the incubators he gave them, while the pencils scurried illegibly
across the pages, a brief description of the modern fertilizing process; spoke first,
of course, of its surgical introduction–"the operation undergone voluntarily for the
good of Society, not to mention the fact that it carries a bonus amounting to six
months' salary"; continued with some account of the technique for preserving the
excised ovary alive and actively developing; passed on to a consideration of
optimum temperature, salinity, viscosity; referred to the liquor in which the detached
and ripened eggs were kept; and, leading his charges to the work tables, actually
showed them how this liquor was drawn off from the test-tubes; how it was let out
drop by drop onto the specially warmed slides of the microscopes; how the eggs
which it contained were inspected for abnormalities, counted and transferred to a
porous receptacle; how (and he now took them to watch the operation) this
receptacle was immersed in a warm bouillon containing free-swimming
spermatozoa–at a minimum concentration of one hundred thousand per cubic
centimetre, he insisted; and how, after ten minutes, the container was lifted out of
the liquor and its contents re-examined; how, if any of the eggs remained
unfertilized, it was again immersed, and, if necessary, yet again; how the fertilized
ova went back to the incubators; where the Alphas and Betas remained until
definitely bottled; while the Gammas, Deltas and Epsilons were brought out again,
after only thirty-six hours, to undergo Bokanovsky's Process.
"Bokanovsky's Process," repeated the Director, and the students underlined the
words in their little notebooks.

One egg, one embryo, one adult-normality. But a bokanovskified egg will bud, will
proliferate, will divide. From eight to ninety-six buds, and every bud will grow into a
perfectly formed embryo, and every embryo into a full-sized adult. Making
ninety-six human beings grow where only one grew before. Progress.
"Essentially," the D.H.C. concluded, "bokanovskification consists of a series of
arrests of development. We check the normal growth and, paradoxically enough,
the egg responds by budding."

Responds by budding. The pencils were busy.

He pointed. On a very slowly moving band a rack-full of test-tubes was entering a
large metal box, another, rack-full was emerging. Machinery faintly purred. It took
eight minutes for the tubes to go through, he told them. Eight minutes of hard
X-rays being about as much as an egg can stand. A few died; of the rest, the least
susceptible divided into two; most put out four buds; some eight; all were returned
to the incubators, where the buds began to develop; then, after two days, were
suddenly chilled, chilled and checked. Two, four, eight, the buds in their turn
budded; and having budded were dosed almost to death with alcohol; consequently
burgeoned again and having budded–bud out of bud out of bud–were
thereafter–further arrest being generally fatal–left to develop in peace. By which
time the original egg was in a fair way to becoming anything from eight to ninety-six
embryos– a prodigious improvement, you will agree, on nature. Identical twins–but
not in piddling twos and threes as in the old viviparous days, when an egg would
sometimes accidentally divide; actually by dozens, by scores at a time.
"Scores," the Director repeated and flung out his arms, as though he were
distributing largesse. "Scores."

But one of the students was fool enough to ask where the advantage lay.
"My good boy!" The Director wheeled sharply round on him. "Can't you see? Can't
you see?" He raised a hand; his expression was solemn. "Bokanovsky's Process is
one of the major instruments of social stability!"

Major instruments of social stability.

Standard men and women; in uniform batches. The whole of a small factory staffed
with the products of a single bokanovskified egg.

"Ninety-six identical twins working ninety-six identical machines!" The voice was
almost tremulous with enthusiasm. "You really know where you are. For the first
time in history." He quoted the planetary motto. "Community, Identity, Stability."
Grand words. "If we could bokanovskify indefinitely the whole problem would be
solved."

Solved by standard Gammas, unvarying Deltas, uniform Epsilons. Millions of
identical twins. The principle of mass production at last applied to biology.

Solved by standard Gammas, unvarying Deltas, uniform Epsilons. Millions of
identical twins. The principle of mass production at last applied to biology.
"But, alas," the Director shook his head, "we can't bokanovskify indefinitely."
Ninety-six seemed to be the limit; seventy-two a good average. From the same
ovary and with gametes of the same male to manufacture as many batches of
identical twins as possible–that was the best (sadly a second best) that they could
do. And even that was difficult.

"For in nature it takes thirty years for two hundred eggs to reach maturity. But our
business is to stabilize the population at this moment, here and now. Dribbling out
twins over a quarter of a century–what would be the use of that?"

Obviously, no use at all. But Podsnap's Technique had immensely accelerated the
process of ripening. They could make sure of at least a hundred and fifty mature
eggs within two years. Fertilize and bokanovskify–in other words, multiply by
seventy-two–and you get an average of nearly eleven thousand brothers and sisters
in a hundred and fifty batches of identical twins, all within two years of the same age.

"And in exceptional cases we can make one ovary yield us over fifteen thousand
adult individuals."

Beckoning to a fair-haired, ruddy young man who happened to be passing at the
moment. "Mr. Foster," he called. The ruddy young man approached. "Can you tell
us the record for a single ovary, Mr. Foster?"

"Sixteen thousand and twelve in this Centre," Mr. Foster replied without hesitation.
He spoke very quickly, had a vivacious blue eye, and took an evident pleasure in
quoting figures. "Sixteen thousand and twelve; in one hundred and eighty-nine
batches of identicals. But of course they've done much better," he rattled on, "in
some of the tropical Centres. Singapore has often produced over sixteen thousand
five hundred; and Mombasa has actually touched the seventeen thousand mark.
But then they have unfair advantages. You should see the way a negro ovary
responds to pituitary! It's quite astonishing, when you're used to working with
European material. Still," he added, with a laugh (but the light of combat was in his
eyes and the lift of his chin was challenging), "still, we mean to beat them if we can.
I'm working on a wonderful Delta-Minus ovary at this moment. Only just eighteen
months old. Over twelve thousand seven hundred children already, either decanted
or in embryo. And still going strong. We'll beat them yet."

http://www.greylodge.org/occultreview/glor_017/Huxley_-_Brave_New_World.pdf