Greg Bear - Darwin's Radio

“I don’t recognize the law,” Mitch said firmly.

“The penalty is a fine of five hundred dollars for each week you refuse,” Gianelli said.

“Best not to make a big deal out of it,” Galbreath said. “It’s a kind of addendum to a birth certificate.”

“The infant hasn’t been born yet.”

“Then think of it as an addendum to the postrejection medical report,” Gianelli said, his shoulders rising.

“There was no rejection,” Kaye said. “What we’re doing is natural.”

Gianelli held out his hands in exasperation. “All I need is your current residence and a waiver to access your pertinent medical records, with Dr. Galbreath and your lawyer, if you wish, overseeing what we look at.”

“My God,” Mitch said. He moved Kaye past Galbreath and Gianelli, then paused to say to the doctor, “You know what this means, don’t you? People will stay away from hospitals, from their physicians.”

“My hands are pretty much tied,” Galbreath said. “The hospital fought this until just yesterday. We still plan to appeal to the Board of Health. But for now—”

Mitch and Kaye left. Galbreath stood in the doorway, face mottled.

Gianelli followed them down the hall, agitated. “I have to remind you,” he said, “that these fines are cumulative—”

“Give it up, Ed!” Galbreath shouted, slamming her hand on the wall. “Just give it up and let them go, for Christ’s sake!”

Gianelli stood in the middle of the hallway, shaking his head. “I hate this shit!”

“You hate it?” Galbreath shouted at him. “Just leave my patients the hell alone!”

Your face looks pretty good,” Shawbeck said. He advanced into Augustine’s office on a pair of crutches. His aide helped him lower himself into the chair. Augustine was finishing a corned beef sandwich. He wiped his lips and folded the top of the foam box, latching it.

“All right,” Shawbeck said when he was seated. “Weekly meeting of the survivors of July twentieth, der Fuhrer presiding.”

Augustine lifted his eyes. “Not a bit funny.”

“When’s Christopher going to join us? We should keep a bottle of brandy, and the last survivor gets to toast the departed.”

“Christopher is getting more and more disaffected,” Augustine said.

“And you aren’t?” Shawbeck asked. “How long since you met with the president?”

“Three days,” Augustine said.

“Black budget discussions?”

“Emergency Action reserve finances,” Augustine said.

“He didn’t even mention them to me,” Shawbeck said.

“It’s my ball now. They’re going to hang the old toilet seat around my neck.”

“Because you put together the rationale,” Shawbeck said. “So — these new babies are not only going to be born dead, but if any happen to be born alive, we take them away from their parents and put them into specially financed hospitals. We’ve gone pretty far on this one.”

“The public seems to be with us,” Augustine said. “The president’s describing it as a major public health risk.”

“I wouldn’t be in your shoes for anything on Earth, Mark. It’s going to be political suicide. The president has to be in shock to be promoting this.”

“To tell the truth, Frank, after all those years in the White House’s shadow, he’s feeling his oats a little. He’s going to drag us around the old bridle path getting past mistakes straightened out, and pushing through a martyr’s agenda.”

“And you’re going to spur him on?”

Augustine angled his head back. He nodded.

“Incarcerate sick babies?”

“You know the science.”

Shawbeck smirked. “You get five virologists to agree that it’s possible that these infants — and the mothers — could be breeding grounds for ancient viruses. Well, thirty-seven virologists have gone on record saying it’s bogus.”

“Not as prominent, and not nearly as influential.”

“Thorne and Mahy and Mondavi and Bishop, Mark.”

“I have my instincts, Frank. Remember, this is my area, too.”

Shawbeck dragged his chair forward. “What are we now, petty tyrants?”

Augustine’s face went livid. “Thanks, Frank,” he said.

“The public starts to turn against the mothers and the unborn children. What if the babies are cute? How long until they swing back, Mark? What will you do then?”

Augustine did not answer.

“I know why the president refuses to meet with me,” Shawbeck said. “You tell him what he wants to hear. He’s afraid, and the country’s out of control, so he picks a solution and you back him up. It isn’t science, it’s politics.”

“The president agrees with me.”

“Whatever we call it — July twentieth, the Reichstag fire — the bombing doesn’t give you carte blanche,” Shawbeck said.

“We’re going to survive,” Augustine said. “I didn’t deal us this hand.”

“No,” Shawbeck said. “But you’ve sure stopped the deck from being dealt out fairly.”

Augustine stared straight ahead.

“They’re calling it ‘original sin,’ you know that?”

“I hadn’t heard that,” Augustine said.

“Tune in the Christian Broadcasting Network. They’re splitting constituencies all across America. Pat Robertson is telling his audience these monsters are God’s final test before the arrival of the new Kingdom of Heaven. He says our DNA is trying to purge itself of all our accumulated sins, to…what was his phrase, Ted?”

The aide said, “Clean up our records before God calls Judgment Day.”

“That was it.”

“We still don’t control the airwaves, Frank,” Augustine said. “I can’t be held responsible…”

“Half a dozen other televangelists say these unborn children are the devil’s spawn,” Shawbeck continued, building up steam. “Born with the mark of Satan, one-eyed and hare-lipped. Some are even saying they have cloven hooves.”

Augustine shook his head sadly.

“They’re your support group now,” Shawbeck said, and waved his arm for the aide to step forward. He struggled to his feet, shoved the crutches into his armpits. “I’m tendering my resignation tomorrow morning. From the Taskforce and from the NIH. I’m burned out. I can’t take any more of this ignorance — my own or anybody else’s. Just thought you should be the first to know. Maybe you can consolidate all the power.”

When Shawbeck was gone, Augustine stood behind his desk, hardly breathing. His knuckles were white and his hands shook. Slowly, he took control of his emotions, forcing himself to breathe deeply and evenly.

“It’s all in the follow-through,” he said to the empty room.

They moved the last of the boxes out of Mitch’s old apartment in the snow. Kaye insisted on carrying a few small ones, but Mitch and Wendell had done all the heavy hauling in the early morning hours, packing everything into a big orange-and-white U-Haul rental truck.

Kaye climbed into the truck beside Mitch. Wendell drove.

“Good-bye, bachelor days,” Kaye said.

Mitch smiled.

“There’s a tree farm near the house,” Wendell said. “We can pick up a Christmas tree on the way in. Should be terrifically cozy.”

Their new home stood in a patch of low brush and woods near Ebey Slough and the town of Snohomish. Rustic green and white, with a single front-facing gable window and a large screened-in porch, the two-bedroom house lay at the end of a long country road surrounded by pines. They were renting from Wendell’s parents, who had owned the house for thirty-four years.