Maximum Light

by Nancy Kress

  But please God, not this particular patron. If Melita has set me up to have to fend off some amorous rich society woman …

  But Justine Locke isn’t amorous, and she isn’t young. At least seventy, maybe more. She wears a lovely magenta gown, very simple, without holo-enhancements or jewels. Her eyes are sunken but her skin is smooth; vivifactured, probably. She introduces herself to me shyly. And she actually knows something about ballet.

  “What was wrong with Tasha Riccio tonight?” she asks, after we’ve been chatting aimlessly a while. “I thought she was a bit off.”

  “She was.”

  “I’m watching her; she has promise, don’t you think? And besides, she looks like my granddaughter.”

  She smiles suddenly, an abashed smile, as if it’s silly to expect me to care that Tasha looks like her granddaughter. All of a sudden, I feel more at ease. So I say, “Do you have a picture of your granddaughter?”

  “Oh, you don’t want to see that.”

  “Sure, I do.” Deference is rare among patrons; they’re too aware that they control what Melita calls “the green river of life.”

  Mrs. Locke pulls out a packet of holograms from her evening purse, and that touches me, too, that she would carry them around even in her small gold bag. The older granddaughter does look like Tasha. And the other one, three years old, is enchanting.

  “You like kids,” Mrs. Locke says, her kindly old eyes smiling at me. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  You will wonder a thousand times what’s in those memories. “No. No, I don’t.”

  “Pity. I’m very fortunate, in these times, to have two grandchildren. So many of my friends have none. Although the younger one is … adopted. You may have noticed she doesn’t look like her sister.”

  “No, she doesn’t.”

  “She came to us by a … complicated route. Not strictly conventional. But perhaps you disapprove of such an intense desire to have children that one … bends the rules.”

  “Well, no,” I say. I’ve never thought about it. The kindly, sunken eyes are suddenly very sharp, watching me. She says nothing, which makes me feel I have to fill the silence. “I mean, yes.… I guess you shouldn’t bend the rules about kids. The laws are there to protect them, right? The government probably knows what’s it’s doing with those laws.” I feel like an idiot; this subject doesn’t interest me, and so I don’t really know how to converse on it. I am blithe; I will never have children.

  “Well, perhaps you’re right,” Mrs. Locke says mildly, and stuffs the holograms back into her evening bag. “My, how serious we’ve gotten from pretty young Tasha’s dancing! Was I right to think she fluffed the second-act supported promenade, or is that just my old eyes?”

  I breathe easier; this is better conversation. “Yes, she did. But usually she’s very good.”

  “Well, I suppose nobody’s at the top of their form all the time. Although you seem to be; I’ve never seen you give a bad performance.” She smiles, both admiring and just a touch shy.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ve watched you for years, you know, whenever I visit my son in Washington. It’s you that convinced me that the great Balanchine was wrong.”

  “When he said ‘Dance is woman’?”

  “Dance is muscle and bone, and male dancers have more of both.”

  I can’t help it; I laugh aloud. From across the Promenade, Melita smiles approvingly.

  Mrs. Locke says, “I’ve enjoyed talking to you tremendously, Cameron, and I know I mustn’t monopolize you. But I do have one last question, if I may.”

  “Go ahead,” I say, because despite myself, I like her.

  She puts her hand on my arm. “I was in Washington last winter on an extended visit. Fun, but still, you know how family can be if you’re there for half a year. I’d hoped to escape any little squabbles by watching you dance. But I went to every performance at Aldani House from January to April, and you didn’t appear once. Why not?”

  I freeze. Those were the months of my memory operation, plus whatever … happened before the operation. I never think about it, if I can help it.

  Mrs. Locke’s eyes are bonded to my face. She says, “Oh, dear—you don’t want to talk about it.”

  “No,” I say. “I was … ill.”

  “I understand. I’m sorry to have asked, since obviously it’s something that has upset you. Clearly you don’t talk about it with anybody.”

  “No.”

  “Not even your nearest and dearest?” she says, with a sudden arch glance at Rob, and it’s so obvious that she’s trying for a lighthearted tone, trying to make me feel better, that I feel a rush of sudden warmth. She really is a nice old lady.

  “No, not even with my nearest and dearest.” I try to match her tone. “Nor my farthest and feared.”

  “I can’t believe you have any of those.”

  “You’d be surprised,” I say, and it comes out not as light-hearted as I’d hoped, so I add jocularly, “There’s always the wild fans breaking down doors to get to me.”

  “And you don’t tell them anything either?”

  “Especially not them,” I say, and because I’m thinking of the soldier at International Center just a few days after the attack on Rob and me in the alleyway, it doesn’t come out sounding jocular at all.

  Mrs. Locke looks puzzled, and watches my face, and waits. Again I don’t know what to say next. In fact, the whole conversation seems to have collapsed. Damn Melita; I’m just not good at talking to outsiders. But the silence lengthens, so I blurt out, “Just recently a fan actually broke into my dressing room at the International Center. It was a little unnerving. She was armed. But Security is very good about such things, and they got her.”

  “Goodness! And you’ve never seen her since?”

  “No,” I say, grateful for that. Maybe the girl soldier is still in jail. I hope so.

  Mrs. Locke nods, and because she sees I’m distressed, she stands up and puts out her hand. “Again, wonderful to actually meet you. I’m such an admirer of yours, Cameron. Take care of yourself, now.” And she walks away, to spare me any more dumb embarrassment. She really is a kind person.

  I also stand, stretch, and look at Melita. She nods. I’ve done my part; I can go. Gratefully, I disappear downstairs, where Rob is waiting.

  * * *

  That night, I dream again, the first time in a while. I am poking through the debris of a ruined house, heavily overgrown with weeds. In a growth of ferns beside a broken concrete wall I find a nest of human babies. Each is grossly deformed: one has the arms of a dog, another the head of a bat. I back away, but the babies all suddenly rise in a cloud and fasten small sharp teeth into my skin all over my body. I shriek and try to yank them off; they don’t budge. Their animal eyes watch me unblinkingly. Rob shakes me awake.

  “Cam! Cam!”

  “Oh … I … oh…”

  “You were dreaming again.” He folds his arms around me. “Another animal dream?”

  “Yes,” I gasp.

  “Genetic hybrids, again?”

  “Yes.”

  He rubs my back, kisses my head. “Cam, darling, I looked it all up in the library banks. Remember? Those things can’t exist. Even if the government allowed it, we just don’t have the science to splice DNA like that. Nobody in the world does. All the scientists agree on that.”

  “I know.” The words come out muffled against his shoulder. I could feel my heart calming.

  “I think you should call Dr. Newell and have her increase your patch medication again.”

  “No. No, Rob, I can’t.” Too high dosage slows my reaction time. Not much, only a fraction of a second, most people wouldn’t even notice. But I am a dancer. A fraction of a second matters.

  “All right,” Rob says. He’s already drifting back to sleep. My next question wakes him again, even though it’s whispered in the dark.

  “Rob … when we make love, and I touch you … there are ridges of skin on my balls. Scars.
But not on yours. Why?”

  His body tenses. “Cameron, love … don’t ask.”

  “No memory operation should give me scars on my balls.”

  “Please don’t ask.”

  I don’t. But it is a long time before I can go back to sleep. Tomorrow I’ll be sluggish at morning class. And it’s Tuesday; Mr. C. himself, not Rebecca, leads class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I can’t be sluggish.

  But I am. Mr. C. gazes at me thoughtfully—a bad sign. Tasha’s dancing is still off. Eric Carter and Sarah are still pointedly ignoring each other; Dmitri still mooning after Vivian Vargas; Laura still upset, biting her full underlip. Joaquim, sidelined for at least two weeks, watches forlornly, his knee propped on a chair. It’s not a good class.

  And afterwards, Melita stops me in the shabby, cheerless lounge area understage. She’s icy. “Cameron, I checked on your patron of last night, Justine Locke. No record of her anywhere. No wonder she only made her request an hour before the performance—she knew I wouldn’t have time to do a background check.”

  “She lied?” I say stupidly.

  “She lied. Just another crazy fan willing to cheat to get to talk for half an hour to a dancer. And you gave her what she wanted.” Melita rustles indignantly down the hallway, as if the disappointment of Mrs. Locke were my fault.

  I’ll be glad when we return to Washington, and Aldani House.

  10

  NICK CLEMENTI

  The morning I left for Atlanta to visit my daughter Sallie, it seemed that I might not even get as far as the airport. I had to stop often to rest as I showered, dressed, packed. And the phone didn’t stop ringing. Committee business, friendship business, business business. The only people I didn’t talk to were Maggie and Vanderbilt Grant.

  I was glad not to talk to Maggie—in fact, I had arranged it that way. She was spending three days with her sister in Louisville. The morning she’d left, I’d gone again to the hospital for another outpatient treatment. They’d cleared out the latest diseased tissues from my sinuses, where mucormycosis begins. They’d put more patches with more antifungals and blood-sugar stabilizers under my skin. They’d done a brain scan. I declined to hear the results. I didn’t want Maggie questioning me yet, either. I’d tell her at the right time, my time. It was not Death, for I stood up, / And all the dead lie down—

  Emily Dickinson.

  But Van’s silence was troubling. He hadn’t sent me the promised information about FBI records on Cameron Atuli. Was that because he had found nothing—or because he had? Either way, this trip to Atlanta was designed to speed Van Grant along.

  I was finally ready to leave for the airport when John called. “Dad?”

  “Yes, John. Look, can I call you back later from—”

  “This is an emergency.”

  The words no parent ever wants to hear. John’s face looked haggard. I felt for the chair behind me. “Go on.”

  “It’s Laurie. She’s having some sort of breakdown.”

  “Where is she? Have you called a doctor?”

  “She doesn’t need a doctor, Dad! That’s your solution to everything! This is different, dammit!”

  I held onto my temper. “Just tell me what happened, John.”

  “She hasn’t stopped crying for two days. Ever since the Goldstones—our neighbors—had their baby. Laurie went to see the baby, came home, and started to cry. And hasn’t stopped.” His voice turned slightly aggrieved. “It hasn’t been easy around here.”

  I tried to picture Laurie—sunny, tender Laurie—sobbing for two days, and my chest hurt. “What can I do, John?”

  “Talk to her, Dad. She always listens to you.”

  “Of course I’ll talk to her, if you think it will help. But right now I have to leave for the airport, my plane takes off in a little over an hour, and—”

  “I’ll send Laurie to the airport to talk to you there.”

  This didn’t strike me as a good plan. A crowded waiting area or bar, time pressing in, Laurie in tears … Something else struck me. “What do you mean, ‘send’ her? Won’t you bring her yourself?”

  “I can’t. I have a job interview.”

  Deep breath. Don’t lose composure. At thirty-six, John wasn’t going to stop shifting responsibility whenever he could. Not unless Laurie actually left him, God forbid.

  I said, “Let me talk to Laurie.”

  “I’ll get her.”

  A delay, and then Laurie’s voice, thick but not hysterical. “Dad? Thanks for agreeing to meet me at the airport. I appreciate it, when I know how busy you are.”

  So John had taken choice out of my hands. I said, “Never too busy for you, Laurie.” If I had to, I’d rebook my flight to Atlanta. Sallie would understand. “Do you know where the Wright Bar is at National? In Terminal A?”

  “Yes.” She was trying hard to sound normal.

  “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  “Thank you, Dad,” she said, sounding suddenly, and uncharacteristically, like a little girl. I broke the link before I had to talk again to John, gathered my bag, and started for the door. I almost made it when the wall screen brightened and Shana’s beautiful heartless face appeared.

  “Hi, Nick. This is prerecorded. You’re probably leaving for the airport right now, so I’ll be quick. I won’t be home for a few days. I’m visiting some NS buddies in Philly. Don’t worry, I’ll be back for my hearing, I won’t stick you with bail. Everything’s fine.” And she winked.

  I wanted to strangle her. Undoubtedly she wasn’t visiting NS buddies, wasn’t in Philadelphia, and might not make the hearing. God knows what she was really doing. But there was no time to do anything about it now—as she well knew.

  That some people can’t reproduce may be an evolutionary advantage for the race as a whole.

  * * *

  As I hobbled through the airport, my right eye ached, even as my vision seemed to have sharpened. I noticed everything:

  The number of wheelchairs, most occupied.

  The rapidly disappearing stack of large-print newspapers. The young prefer their news on the net.

  The proud young mother in a corner chair, breastfeeding discreetly but not too discreetly, enjoying the envious glances of others.

  The ten-year-old throwing a tantrum because his father wouldn’t allow him to climb onto a high railing.

  The toddler with vacant, staring eyes.

  The bright lighting, so much brighter than in my youth. The old may have as few as ten percent of their original retinal cones.

  The proudly pregnant woman, who may or may not understand that she has nearly a twenty-five percent chance of miscarriage.

  I noticed these things, but the Committee would not. Not consistently, not all at the same time, not as part of a pattern. They refused to notice.

  We had been throwing synthetic chemicals into the world for two hundred years, and for nearly a hundred of them, people had worried about those chemicals causing cancer. But nobody got cancer anymore. The medical techniques for bio-isolating, surrounding, and shutting down tumors were too good. Cancer had been conquered, and in a country with severe financial and demographic crises, nobody wanted to believe that those pesky chemicals weren’t completely conquered as well. Public attention had moved on.

  But the chemicals that disrupted animal endocrine systems had not. In the body such chemicals break down slowly, or not at all. Researchers of course knew this, but in times of scaled-back basic research, it was not a medical priority. People, after all, were not dying of this. People were staying healthy and strong.

  Except—fetuses are not exactly people. Even infants are far from neurologically formed. They’re people-in-progress, and a tiny dose of a synthetic chemical that fit into an endocrine receptor, a dose an adult body wouldn’t even notice, can cause profound consequences in the womb. Or in the developing infant. For some endocrine disrupters, a dose of two parts per billion would do it. And most disrupters carry so easily on the wind. In two hundred years they ha
d come to blanket the globe with astonishing evenness.

  The proud young mother giving her baby breast milk, here or in Brazil, was also giving it huge doses of synthetic endocrine disrupters. They accumulated in body fat, especially at the top of the food chain, and breast milk was heavily fatty.

  The ten-year-old having a tantrum, here or in Jakarta, may or may not have neurological impairment or a learning disability. Endocrine disrupters affect the brain.

  The vacant-eyed toddler, here or in London, was only one statistic on the sharp upswing of birth defects. In the womb, timing is all. A small dose of endocrine disrupters can cause even the best genetic blueprint to be built wrong.

  The pregnant mother, here or in Tokyo, who suffers a miscarriage—nowadays, one in four—will never know what caused it. Nor will the childless couple, here or in Melbourne, who spend years and fortunes and heartbreak trying to conceive. Nothing in your environment, the doctors tell them, has such an effect under laboratory conditions. Nothing we could have done, my dear—just nature taking its course, I’m so sorry. If anything chemical could produce such an effect, it would of course be instantly taken off the market. FDA tests are more thorough than ever. All environmental chemicals are thoroughly vetted.

  But no one tests them in combination. It just isn’t possible. There are thousands of endocrine-disrupting chemicals, which means billions of possible permutations. And that’s even before you realize that for some disrupters, tests to measure small-enough doses don’t even exist.

  Or before you consider the complex feedback loops one endocrine disrupter can set up for another. Endocrine disrupters, endocrine blockers, endocrine-disrupter blockers, all behaving differently for each synthetic. Testing is a hopeless idea.

  Or before you realize that disruption can occur in many different ways: by mimicking natural hormones and binding to their receptors. By blocking natural hormones from binding to their receptors. By reacting directly with hormones. By altering patterns of natural hormone synthesis. By disturbing distribution of natural receptor sites … or any of those in combination.