Greg Bear - Darwin's Radio

“You sit here,” Mitch said, starting to get out of the chair. “More comfortable.”

“I’m fine. I want to sit up straight.”

Mitch paused half out of the chair, woozy.

“Something wrong?”

He saw the first jag of light. He closed his eyes and fell back into the chair. “It’s coming,” he said.

“What?”

He pointed at his temple, and said, softly, “Bang.” He had had bodily distortions occur before and during his headaches when he had been a boy. He remembered hating them, and now he was almost beside himself with resentment and foreboding.

“I’ve got some Naproze in my purse,” Kaye said. He listened to her walking around the room. With his eyes closed, he saw ghostly lightning and his feet felt as big as an elephant’s. The pain was like a round of cannon fire advancing across a wide valley.

Kaye pressed two tablets into his hand and a tumbler full of water. He swallowed the tablets, drank the water, not at all confident they would do any good. Perhaps if he had had any decent warning, taken them earlier in the day…

“Let’s get you into bed,” Kaye said.

“What?” Mitch asked.

“Bed.”

“I want to go away,” he said.

“Right. Sleep.”

That was the only way he might even hope to escape. Even then, he might have horrid and painful dreams. He remembered those, as well; dreams of being crushed beneath mountains.

He lay down in the cool of the bare bedroom, on the linens they had left here for their last night, beneath a comforter. He pulled the comforter up over his head, leaving a small space to breathe through.

He barely heard Kaye tell him she loved him.

Kaye pulled back the comforter. Mitch’s forehead felt clammy, cold as ice. She was concerned, guilty that she could not share his pain; then, could not help rationalizing that Mitch would not share the pain of bringing their baby into the world.

She sat on the bed beside him. His breath came in shallow pants. She reflexively felt her tummy beneath the cardigan, lifted up the sweater, rubbed her skin, stretched so smooth it was almost shiny. The baby had been subdued for several hours after a bout of kicking this afternoon.

Kaye had never felt her kidneys being pummeled from the inside; she didn’t relish the experience. Nor did she enjoy going to the bathroom every hour on the hour, or the continuous rounds of heartburn. At night, lying in bed, she could even feel the rhythmic motion of her intestines.

All of it made her apprehensive; it also made her feel intensely alive and aware.

But she was pulling away from thinking about Mitch, about his pain. She settled down beside him and he suddenly rolled over, tugging the comforter and turning away.

“Mitch?”

He didn’t answer. She lay on her back for a moment, but that was uncomfortable, so she shifted on her side, facing away from Mitch, and backed into him slowly, gently, for his warmth. He did not move or protest. She stared at the gray-lit and empty wall. She thought she might get up and try to work on the book for a few minutes, but the laptop computer and her notebooks were all packed away. The impulse passed.

The silence in the house bothered her. She listened for any sound, heard only Mitch’s breathing and her own. The air was so still outside. She couldn’t even hear the traffic on Highway 2, less than a mile away. No birds. No settling beams or creaking floors.

After half an hour, she made sure that Mitch was asleep, then sat up, pushed herself to the edge of the bed, stood, and went into the kitchen to heat a kettle of water for tea. She stared out the kitchen window at the last of the twilight. The water in the kettle slowly came to a whistling boil and she poured it over a bag of chamomile in one of the two mugs they had left out on the white tile counter. As the tea steeped, she felt the smooth tiles with her finger, wondering what their next home would be like, probably within hailing distance of the Five Tribes’ huge Wild Eagle casino. Sue had still been making the arrangements this morning and promised only that eventually there would be a house, a nice one. “Maybe a trailer at first,” she had added over the phone.

Kaye felt a small throb of helpless anger. She wanted to stay here. She felt comfortable here. “This is so strange,” she said to the window. As if in response, the baby kicked once.

She picked up the mug and dropped the tea bag in the sink. As she took her first sip, she heard the sound of engines and tires on the gravel driveway.

She walked into the living room and stood, watching headlights flash outside. They were expecting no one; Wendell was in Seattle, the truck would not be available at the rental agency until tomorrow morning, Merton was in Beresford, New York; she had heard that Sue and Jack were in eastern Washington.

She thought of waking Mitch, wondered if she could wake him in his condition.

“Maybe it’s Maria or somebody else.”

But she would not approach the door. The living room lights were off, the porch lights off, the kitchen lights on. A flash played through the front window against the south wall. She had left the drapes open; they had no near neighbors, nobody to peer in.

A sharp rap rattled the front door. Kaye looked at her watch, pushed the little button to turn on its blue-green light. Seven o’clock.

The rap sounded again, followed by an unfamiliar voice. “Kaye Lang? Mitchell Rafelson? County Sheriff’s Department, Judicial Services.”

Kaye’s breath caught. What could this be? Surely nothing involving her! She walked to the front door and twirled the single dead bolt, opened the door. Four men stood on the porch, two in uniform, two in civilian clothes, slacks and light jackets. The flashlight beam crossed her face as she switched on the porch light. She blinked at them. “I’m Kaye Lang.”

One of the civilians, a tall, stout man with close-cut brown hair on a long oval face stepped forward. “Miz Lang, we have—”

“Mrs. Lang,” Kaye said.

“All right. My name is Wallace Jurgenson. This is Dr. Kevin Clark of the Snohomish Health District. I’m a Commissioned Corps public health service representative for the Emergency Action Taskforce in the state of Washington. Mrs. Lang, we have a federal Emergency Action Taskforce order verified by the Olympia Taskforce office, state of Washington. We’re contacting women known to be possibly infectious, bearing a second-stage—”

“That’s bull,” Kaye said.

The man stopped, faintly exasperated, then resumed. “A second-stage SHEVA fetus. Do you know what this means, ma’am?”

“Yes,” Kaye said, “but it’s all wrong.”

“I’m here to inform you that in the judgment of the federal Emergency Action Taskforce Office and the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention—”

“I used to work for them,” Kaye said.

“I know that,” Jurgenson said. Clark smiled and nodded, as if pleased to meet her. The deputies stood back beyond the porch, arms folded. “Miz Lang, it’s been determined that you may present a public health threat. You and other women in this area are being contacted and informed of their choices.”

“I choose to stay where I am,” Kaye said, her voice shaky. She stared from face to face. Pleasant-looking men, clean shaven, earnest, almost as nervous as she was, and not happy.

“We have orders to take you and your husband to a county Emergency Action shelter in Lynnwood, where you will be sequestered and provided medical care until it can be determined whether or not you present a public health risk—”

“No,” Kaye said, feeling her face heat up. “This is absolute bullshit. My husband is ill. He can’t travel.”

Jurgenson’s face was stern. He was preparing to do something he did not like. He glanced at Clark. The deputies stepped forward, and one nearly stumbled on a rock. After swallowing, Jurgenson continued. “Dr. Clark can give your husband a brief examination before we move you.” His breath showed on the night air.