Greg Bear - Darwin's Children

“Like getting a loan from the Mafia…”

Maggie Flynn knocked on the open door to Dicken’s office. “Got a moment?” she asked.

“Not really. Why?” Dicken asked, turning in his rolling chair. Flynn looked flushed and upset.

“Something’s come up. Jurie’s off the campus. He tells us to sit tight. I don’t think we can. We just aren’t prepared.”

“What is it?”

“We need expert advice,” Flynn said. “And you could be the expert.”

Dicken stood and stuck his hands in his pants pockets, alert and wary. “What sort of advice?”

“We have a new guest,” Flynn said. “Not a monkey.” She did not appear at all happy with the prospect.

If Maggie Flynn believed Dicken had Jurie’s confidence, who was he to correct her? Flynn’s pass could clear them both if his own pass was blocked—he had learned that much yesterday, visiting Presky’s monotreme study lab.

Flynn took him outside the building to a small cart and drove him around the five linked warehouses that contained the zoo. Out in the open, away from listening devices, she expressed herself more clearly.

“You’ve worked with SHEVA kids,” Flynn began. “I haven’t. We have a tough situation, medically speaking, ethically speaking, and I don’t know how to approach it. As the only married female in this block, Turner picked me to provide some moral support, establish a rapport… but frankly, I haven’t a clue.”

“What are you talking about?” Dicken asked.

Flynn stopped the cart, even more nervous. “You don’t know?” she asked, her voice rising a notch.

Dicken’s mind started to race and he saw he was on the edge of screwing up a golden opportunity. You’ve worked with… As the only married female…

They’re doing it. They’ve done it. He felt his pulse going up and hoped it did not show.

“Oh,” he said, with a fair imitation of casualness. “Virus children.”

Flynn bit her lip. “I don’t like that phrase.” She pushed the cart forward again with the little control stick. “Jurie never worked directly with them. Only with specimens. Neither has Turner, and of course Presky is an animal guy, no bedside manner whatsoever. We thought of you. Turner said that must be why you’re here, and why you’re being given shit theoretical work—so you can be pulled loose for something like this when the time comes.”

“Okay,” Dicken said, putting on a mask of professional caution. He pressed his lips together to keep from saying anything revealing or stupid.

“Something’s gone wrong at the border, I don’t know what. I’m not in that particular loop. Jurie’s in Arizona. Turner told me to bring you in before he gets back.” Her smile was fleeting and desperate. “The cat’s away.”

It was an in-house conspiracy after all, and not a very convincing one. Flynn seemed to expect him to say something reassuring and glib. The whole damned lab functioned on a morphine high of glibness, as if to hide the gnawing awareness that what they were doing might someday attract the attention of The Hague.

“God bless the beasts and children,” Dicken said. “Let’s go.”

On the north side of the array of Pathogenics warehouses, a segmented, inflatable silver enclosure perched on a black expanse of parking lot like some huge alien larva. An access tube led from the enclosure into Warehouse Number 5, which contained most of the primate study labs. Dicken noticed two outside compressors and a complicated, freshly assembled sterilization unit on the south end of the sausage.

He didn’t realize how big the enclosure was until they were almost upon it. The whole complex was as big as one of the warehouses and covered at least an acre.

They parked the cart and entered Warehouse 5 through the delivery door. Turner met them in a small clinic inside the warehouse—a hospital clinic, obviously equipped for humans and not just for primates. “Glad you could make it, Christopher,” he said. “Jurie’s dealing with some mess at the border. A bunch of protesters blocked a lab bus, refused to let it enter Arizona. They had help from the local police, apparently. Jurie had to order up another bus at the last minute and route it around the roadblocks.”

“No surprise,” Flynn said. Dicken glanced between them both. What he saw chilled him. The glibness had completely evaporated. They knew their careers were on the line.

“The preparations have been obvious, but Jurie only told us yesterday,” Turner said. Their statements piled together.

“She’s a very unhappy girl,” Flynn said.

“I’m not sure we should even have her here,” Turner said.

“She’s pregnant,” Flynn said.

“A rape, we’re told. Her foster father,” Turner said.

“Oh, God, I didn’t know it was rape ,” Flynn said, and pressed her knuckles to her cheek. “She’s only fourteen.”

“They brought her from a school in Arizona,” Flynn said. “Jurie calls it our school. That’s where we’ve been getting most of our specimens.”

“She’s pregnant?” Dicken asked, dumbfounded, and then wondered if he had blown his cover.

“That’s not generally known even in the clinic,” Turner said. “I’d appreciate some discretion.”

Dicken let his astonishment come forward. “That’s major.” His voice cracked. “But she’s 52 xx. What about polyploidy?”

“I only know what I see,” Turner said grimly. “She’s pregnant by her foster father.”

“That’s absolutely huge ,” Dicken said.

“She arrived at the school a month ago,” Turner said. “We discovered her pregnancy when we processed a set of her blood tests. Jurie almost had a heart attack when he got the results from the lab. He seemed elated. He got her transferred to Pathogenics last week without telling the rest of us.”

“I was so mad,” Flynn said. “I could have clobbered him.”

“What else could we do? The school couldn’t take care of her, and it’s for damn sure no hospital would touch her.”

Dicken held up his hand. “Who’s working the clinic?” he asked.

“Maggie, Tommy Wrigley—you met Tommy at the party, and Thomas Powers. Some people brought in from California; we don’t know them. And, of course, Jurie, on the research side. But he’s never even visited the girl.”

“What’s her condition?”

“She’s about three months along. Not doing too well. We think she may have self-induced Shiver,” Flynn said.

“That is not confirmed,” Turner said angrily. “She’s acting as if she has the flu, and that’s all it may be. But we’re being extra cautious. And this information goes nowhere… don’t even tell anyone else at Pathogenics.”

“But Dr. Dicken would know if it’s Shiver, wouldn’t he?” Flynn said defensively. “Isn’t that why Jurie brought you here?”

“Let’s look at the girl,” Dicken said.

“Her name is Fremont, Helen Fremont,” Flynn said. “She’s originally from Nevada. Las Vegas, I think.”

“Reno,” Turner corrected. Then, his face collapsing in utter misery, his shoulders slumping, he added, “I don’t think I can take this much longer. I really don’t.”

BALTIMORE-WASHINGTON

Kaye and Marge Cross sat in the back of the taxi in silence. Kaye looked at the passive neck of the driver below his turban, caught a glimpse of his small grin in the rearview mirror. He was whistling to himself, happy. For him, having a SHEVA granddaughter was no great burden, obviously.

Kaye did not know much about conditions for SHEVA children in Pakistan. Generally, traditional cultures—Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists—had been more accepting of the new children. That was both surprising and humbling.