Джек Макдевитт - Cryptic - The Best Short Fiction of Jack McDevitt

Hal said he hated to agree with the Fundamentalists but he wasn’t sure that indefinitely-extended life spans weren’t somehow contrary to the divine plan anyhow. The remark surprised me. “I didn’t think you believed in God,” I said. “You never go to church.”

“Neither do you, Catherine.”

“But I’m not sitting here talking about divine plans.”

“It just seems to me, the way we’re designed, we’re not supposed to go on indefinitely.”

We switched sides and tried to look at all the implications. We kept coming back to what our child would think of us forty years down the road. They took my family from me, and any chance of living a normal life.

And if we declined, when he was suffering from heart disease, liver failure, or she had contracted breast cancer or meningitis, what then would be the verdict on our decision? They played it safe.

He would know. Everybody born from this day forward would know quite clearly that the opportunity had been there. Some parents, most, could say they did not have the money. We wouldn’t have that explanation to offer.

I wondered how many other families were agonizing over the same issue that night.

We went to bed with nothing resembling a resolution, although we’d decided that, to discuss the thing rationally, we had to assume that Armistead and his colleagues could do what they said. That reduced the problem to more manageable, if still daunting, proportions. Would virtual immortality actually be a gift, purchased at the price of sterility? And perhaps of love?

Had Armistead suggested they’d make the child immune to such concerns?

Would I recognize such a child as my own?

I didn’t sleep much.

Next morning—It was a Friday—, I called in sick, wanting to take time to think about the issue that had taken over my life. I knew there’d be no peace until I’d sorted out how I felt. As he left the house, Hal said he was leaning toward forgetting the whole thing. People got along without the Sunrise Project until now, and they’ve done just fine. (That was completely off the point and he knew it. And anyway they hadn’t done so well, had they? They kept dying.) He paused on his way out the door, and a look of frustrated anger came into his eyes. “If we go ahead with it,” he said, “I don’t think the child will thank us.”

I didn’t either. I didn’t think we were likely to be thanked whichever way things went.

The TV reported that antiprotestors had arrived at Biolab and scuffles had broken out. It was going to get ugly, and I asked myself whether I wanted to run that gauntlet again. But that would be a cowardly way to arrive at a decision.

I decided that I needed to get away for a bit. Clear my mind. I got the Honda out and headed for the big cluster mall over on Alpine, passing an IHOP en route and wondering whether one of Armistead’s subjects could pile on pancakes and bacon to his heart’s content and never gain any weight. Not bother to exercise but still retain muscle tone?

The literature promised a marked increase in intelligence and creative capabilities. It was possible, within limits, to provide the child with predispositions in various areas: we could, for example, opt for ingrained musical talent. Whether the talent would develop, the booklets said, would depend on the environment and stimulation provided by the parents.

Talent to what degree? Nobody really knew yet. But genes contributing to a wide range of human abilities and tendencies had been identified. Biolab couldn’t give you a world-class sculptor, but they could provide a running start.

Still, all that was irrelevant. The real issue was very clear: What would the child want? No: maybe what would be best for the child, a different question altogether.

And what did I want? Hal and I were being called on to sacrifice our own plans.

I got bored at the mall and drove through the morning. It was early September and the streets were thick with leaves. I passed an accident, a serious one off Cottonwood Avenue, one car crumpled and lying in a ditch, another on its side. An ambulance was there and a couple of police cars with blue and red lights blinking. Everybody was rubbernecking and traffic barely moved. The EMT’s were trying to get someone out of the crumpled car. I remember thinking that Armistead’s treatment wouldn’t have helped any of the occupants. What would happen to an enhanced person severely injured in a collision? Might his body keep him alive and in pain when he might otherwise have died? It was another question to put to Armistead.

I drifted back to Biolab, parked in the street, and watched the commotion. The crowd was bigger and louder than it had been yesterday. And there were more police. Some people had been jailed. The radio reported a bomb threat.

I drove on, stopping finally at a playground where I watched mothers with their kids. A pair of twins, a boy and a girl about three, dominated the swings, giggling and laughing. Other children chased one another in endless circles.

An older woman, probably in her seventies, occupied a bench. I sat down beside her and we quickly found ourselves talking about families and child-rearing. She was interested that I had no children and assured me I had much to look forward to. She was frail with white hair and arms in which all the bones were visible. But her color was good, and her eyes were alert.

She’d had a good life, she said. Her husband was dead now, heart attack six years ago, her children of course grown and gone. A lot of grandchildren. Most lived out of town, but they came sometimes to visit.

“Would you do it again?” I asked casually. “If you had the opportunity, would you start over?”

She thought about it. “I wouldn’t mind being twenty again,” she said. I could sense the but lingering in there somewhere. “What an odd question it is.” Her eyes stared past my shoulder. “No,” she said, “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” And, quickly, “I hope you don’t think I’m prying or anything—.”

“I just wouldn’t want to go through it all again.” She smiled. “It was a lot of work, you know.”

I went into Westbrook Cemetery and watched a funeral. It’s the only time in my life I’ve attended a burial service among complete strangers. One of the mourners was a young woman, pale and ghastly in black. She was swaying, virtually held erect by friends. And three kids wiped bloodshot eyes and held each other’s hands. The cleric, who was a little man with red hair blown about by the wind, intoned the old phrases. “ In the sure and certain hope…. ”

When hope is certain, doesn’t it become something else?

A mourner told me the victim had died from a rare form of leukemia. One of the types they still couldn’t do anything about. But the sort of thing, I assumed, Armistead would eliminate right at the gate.

After the service they drifted back to their cars. Some needed help; many were in tears. This, I thought, is part of what everyone calls our common heritage. It is what makes us human. It is how we achieve salvation, whatever that might be.

I stood watching the leaves swirl among the headstones. And a hand touched my arm. “Are you all right, Miss?”

It was the cleric. “Yes,” I said. “I think so.”

“Are you sure?” He was round-faced with deep-set gray eyes. Not much older than Hal. “I’m Father McMurtrie,” he said. “From St. Agnes.”

It had gotten cool. A gust of wind swirled around us. I told him my name and, when he offered his condolences, I explained I was a stranger. Had never met the deceased. Knew no one in the family.

“Really?” he said, and I saw that he’d concluded I was one of those deranged persons who get their entertainment from attending funerals.