Analog SFF, October 2005

by Dell Magazine Authors

  I reached into the bag again, and came up empty. “So ... what happens now?"

  She leaned in close. “Right now? We make love."

  * * * *

  Angie was twenty-six when I met her, with three births under her belt and a figure like a holostar. She did calisthenics, yoga, weight toning, kung fu, dance, and tai chi. She was the fittest, funniest, fieriest woman I'd ever met.

  I didn't give her career much thought. I was working as an aerospace engineer for a NASA subcontractor; we were building an Earth Return Vehicle for a manned mission to Mars. Motherhood, by contrast, seemed a cakewalk—only on the job nine months out of twelve, and plenty of free time even then. True, the actual childbirth was said to be a painful ordeal, but only for one day a year. How bad could it be? I thought it sounded like a fair price for 364 days of freedom.

  That was before I met Angie.

  One morning over breakfast, I said, “I hear labor's not too bad. More like pressure than real pain."

  "Just pressure, sure,” she said. “Kind of like a hurricane is just wind."

  I laughed. “Okay, so it's painful,” I said. I poured chocolate milk on my Berry Bombs. Then I noticed her breakfast. “What's that?"

  "A multi-grain muffin."

  "I can't believe they make you eat that stuff."

  Angie rolled her eyes. “They don't make me. I plan my own diet."

  "But you have to report what you eat to your clients, right?"

  "It's not a normal job, darling. What I eat affects the baby. How much I exercise, what medicines I take, even the music I listen to, it all makes a difference."

  I tried to imagine my company telling its employees what to eat or how much sleep to get.

  Angie took a big bite of her muffin and chewed as if she really enjoyed it. She said, “I'm on an all-natural job, so it's more restrictive. I can't even use pain-killers."

  "What? Not even Tylenol?"

  "Nope. Nobody's ever connected Tylenol to fetal complications, but the ‘nothing artificial’ stamp is a big seller. Means more profit for the agency, and a better salary for me."

  "What about during labor? A ... what's it called...” I rubbed at the stubble on my chin, trying to remember the word.

  "An epidural?"

  "That's it. Can you have one of those?"

  "Not on this job. All natural, all the way."

  I made a face. “And that's worth the extra money?"

  "It's not just the money. It's painful, but it's wonderful in a way, too. Creating new life—it's a remarkable experience."

  "One of those things a guy can never understand?” I asked.

  Angie just smiled.

  * * * *

  I knew a challenge when I saw one. I'm an engineer; I don't believe in problems with no solution. I determined to conquer the ancient female mystery of childbirth with the modern tools of research and investigation. While her belly grew, I hit the info sites. I learned terms like amniocentesis, alpha-fetoprotein, episiotomy, gestational diabetes, Braxton-Hicks contractions, and postpartum stress. I knew the difference between an embryo and a fetus, between gestational age and age from conception, and what milestones to anticipate in each trimester.

  I still wasn't prepared. I thought of the stages of pregnancy like the stages of a rocket launch, systematic and timed precisely. I had the timetable memorized. So I was taken aback when, a week too early, Angie grunted and placed both hands on her belly.

  "Well, hello,” she said.

  "Are you okay?” I asked.

  "Fine. The baby just moved."

  "Already?"

  "Definitely. This is going to be a feisty one. You'll be able to feel it, too, before long."

  "I'm not sure I want to,” I said.

  From then on, she took to grabbing my hand several times a day and holding it to her belly. “There,” she would say. “You felt that one, right?” I felt nothing but her belly, which was growing steadily larger. Finally, I told her I'd felt a movement so she'd stop trying.

  "Isn't it amazing?” she asked, eyes shining.

  "Amazing,” I said. “Really, it's remarkable."

  She didn't stop trying. If anything, she did it more—every time she felt the baby move, she'd snatch my hands and want me to feel it, too. She'd even poke and prod her belly, trying to get the baby to kick.

  "Should you really do that?” I asked.

  "It doesn't hurt."

  "At the zoo, they always tell you not to tap on the glass. Annoys the animals."

  "It's not the same thing. The baby likes external interaction."

  "You can't know what the baby likes."

  "Oh, and after my degrees in nursing and midwifery, Mr. Rocket Scientist is going to tell me what I know about this baby.” She threw my hand back at me and tucked in her shirt with a sniff.

  * * * *

  Two weeks later, I did feel the baby move. We were sitting on our porch swing late one evening, watching the stars. I'd pointed out Venus to Angie, and named a few constellations. She sat leaning against me with her feet curled up beside her, holding my hand against her belly.

  "Is that Mars?” she asked, pointing.

  "No,” I said, “It's a star. A red giant named Antares. You're not the first one to make that mistake, though—the name ‘Antares’ means ‘Rival of Mars.’ It looks red because it's running out of hydrogen, and the outer layers are expanding and cooling down.” I was about to explain the spectral classes of stars when the skin of her stomach moved. I jerked my hand away. It was so unexpected, I didn't realize at first what had happened.

  "Gotcha,” said Angie. “That was a big one."

  I'd expected to find the movement disturbing—the idea reminded me too much of those old movies where aliens grow inside human beings and then eat their way out. But it wasn't disturbing. It was more like first contact—a communication from an unknown world. Something really was alive in there.

  "I felt it,” I said. “I really did feel it."

  I put my hand back on the same spot, hoping to feel it again.

  It wasn't that I didn't believe there was a baby before that moment, but I'm an engineer—I understand what I can see and touch. Feeling that kick moved the baby out of the realm of fantasy more than my web research ever did. I started wondering what it felt like to be curled inside such a small space, seeing nothing, hearing only Angie's voice, jouncing and rolling as Angie moved. I wondered what part of the baby had just pushed out at me. A foot? A hand? An elbow? I pressed slightly with my fingers, and it moved again.

  * * * *

  At twenty weeks, Angie went for her tomograph. This was back when aircars were new, and I'd bought one of the first models, a Dodge Elation. I insisted on chauffeuring Angie to her appointment. The car elevated smoothly on its cushion of air, glided forward, and we headed off to the birthing agency. In the parking lot, I purposely gunned the car over a speed bump, enjoying the complete absence of any jolt.

  "Honestly,” said Angie, “you're like a teenager in this thing. Let me out."

  The agency resembled a doctor's office in most respects, though instead of talking to a receptionist, Angie slipped an ID card into a reader and walked to the imaging room herself. I followed, noting the high-res hologrid next to the examination bed. She lay down on the bed, crinkling the paper cover, and folded her hands over her growing abdomen. I sat on a tan swivel stool and watched her.

  It occurred to me that getting pregnant wasn't like getting fat. Her body was still trim and athletic, just with a sensual curve where one hadn't been before. Besides, she glowed now. Her eyes radiated a vitality and love of life that the inconveniences of pregnancy didn't dull. If anything, I was more attracted to her. I told myself it was an evolutionary throwback—attraction to fertile females being more likely to propagate the species—but I couldn't wait for this appointment to be finished so I could get her back to my apartment. I didn't realize that by the time we left, sex would be the furthest thing from my mind.

  The technic
ian arrived, chatty and cheerful. Dousing us in a constant patter of encouraging remarks, she wrapped a fat torus around Angie's middle and fastened it with Velcro. “It uses acoustic waves, just like the old ultrasounds,” she said, “but the images are taken as a continuous series of slices. That way we can composite the whole three-dimensional image onto the hologrid."

  So saying, she activated the machine. A full-color 3D image leapt out of the grid and began rotating. I stared at it dumbly.

  "The baby's black?” I said.

  I regretted the question instantly; the technician herself was black, and what was wrong with a black baby, anyway? It was just that for the first time, it hit me that this was somebody else's baby. The result of the genetic coupling of two strangers, the legal offspring of someone completely unrelated to Angie or myself. Fortunately, the technician didn't take my astonishment for racism.

  "The color is artificial,” she admitted. “It's dark in there, after all; we can't get true color imagery. But the computer uses genetic information to influence its color choices. There's no doubt this is an African-American child."

  The technician manipulated the image, examining the fetus from every angle. She pointed out healthy indicators to Angie in a jargon I didn't understand. After checking the outside of the baby, she began to check the inside, slicing away grisly cross-sections to show bones and internal organs, including a living, beating heart. Angie was delighted. I felt a little ill.

  "Hmm,” the technician said.

  I heard the concern in her voice and looked back at the hologram. She had zoomed in quite close; I couldn't even tell what part of the anatomy was being displayed.

  "This is the spine,” she said, indicating a light-colored splotch. “These are vertebrae, here and here, and right there I see a gap. It looks like the spinal cord hasn't closed."

  I looked at Angie and saw her alarm. “Spinal bifida?” she asked.

  "I don't know. Often with spinal bifida, there's a protrusion from the back, and there's nothing like that here. Just this gap."

  "But my amnio showed normal acetylcholinesterase,” said Angie.

  "Maybe it's nothing. Some less serious anomaly, or just a software artifact. I'll have the specialist take a look."

  The examination ended. We drove home in silence.

  * * * *

  "What is it?” I asked later.

  "A birth defect. The spinal column is supposed to close in the first month of pregnancy. If it doesn't, the damage to the spinal cord can mean significant paralysis, learning disabilities, a whole host of problems."

  "What will they do if she's got it?"

  "We'll have to terminate the pregnancy."

  "What?"

  "It's the only thing to do. The client isn't paying to have a child with a serious illness."

  "Isn't there some treatment?"

  "No. There's a lot they can do, but they can't cure it.” She sounded sad, resigned. “It happened to me once before, when a client couldn't make his payments. It's not my baby, but I get attached anyway, to the idea of it. It's hard to let go."

  I felt unaccountably disturbed. Despite appearances, I knew the fetus wasn't really human, not in a moral sense. It was just an organ in Angie's body. She, or the agency, could choose to do whatever was prudent. Maybe it was the corporate approach that bothered me. I told myself it was none of my business.

  We spoke little over dinner. Angie picked at her all-natural bread and ate only half of her salad. She left early and slept at her own apartment.

  I drove to see her the next morning before work. The doctor called during breakfast. Angie said nothing but “yes” and “thank you,” but I could tell from her face that the news was good. She hung up the phone, sat down at the table, and took a sip of orange juice.

  "Well?” I said. “What did she say?"

  Angie grinned. “There's nothing wrong. It was a false indicator; she said there's no reason to believe the baby has any defect at all."

  I was elated. Leaving what was left of my breakfast, I kissed her, then dragged her off to the bedroom. I was late for work that morning, but I didn't care.

  * * * *

  The month of April was warm and wet. It seemed to rain every day. Angie switched to her maternity wardrobe, a classy collection of outfits that made room for her expanding middle. I spent more time at work preparing a demo for our ERV prototype. I was slated to pitch our proposal to NASA in early July.

  The baby's movements became startlingly pronounced. I could see it move, like a ripple underneath Angie's skin.

  "That's weird,” I told her. I was reminded again of aliens eating their way out of human abdomens.

  Angie grinned. “Want to see it again?” She poked her belly with an index finger and a ripple slid over to the other side.

  "I can't believe how much you poke her,” I said. “Aren't you afraid she'll get brain damage?"

  "I'll poke you,” she said, and attacked me with her index fingers. I grabbed her hands, spun her around, and held her trapped against me. She screamed and wriggled, and we fell backwards onto the couch.

  Twenty minutes later, when we lay spent and panting together, she said, “Ever wonder what it was like to have a family?"

  I could tell she meant the question seriously. I pushed up on my elbows so I could look her in the face.

  "You mean the classic marriage and kids, like before the Family Freedom Act?"

  "I guess. It doesn't sound romantic when you put it like that."

  "It wasn't romantic. It was restrictive. Angie, I want to be with you for as long as we're happy together, but no one's forcing us. That way, you know I'm here because I like you, not because a law compels me."

  "You really believe all that?” she said.

  That made me angry. I climbed off of her and sat up on the couch. “Of course I do. Don't you?"

  "The Family Freedom Act was a reaction to a social crisis,” said Angie. “Millions of women addicted to pleasure drugs, thousands of birth defects, rampant child abuse. It doesn't mean it's the best way to run a society."

  "But it's a good way. Why have half of your population tied up with childbirth when they could be working? It's more efficient to specialize. Besides, with only individuals licensed as guardians, there are no disagreements about where children belong. Do you want to go back to the days where the government forced people to stay in relationships that didn't work anymore? When women were expected to stay at home and cook and clean and raise children instead of pursuing their own dreams? It's taken us generations to break away from that."

  Angie stood up. Her face was flushed.

  "And what about me?” she asked. “Are you going to leave when I get fat and ugly?"

  I stood up, astonished. “No,” I said. “Look, don't take it personally.” I put my hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off.

  "What if your company transfers you somewhere else? Or you just get tired of Philadelphia?"

  "Then I could go. Or stay. Or you could come with me. The point is, it's up to us."

  She let me touch her then, and I pulled her into a hug. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I know you want to be with me. It's just that sometimes..."

  "Don't worry about it,” I said.

  * * * *

  I saw little of Angie in the ensuing weeks. My time and my mind were consumed by propulsion systems, aerobrakes, retrorockets, and orbital maneuvering mechanics. We were building a prototype to accompany a contract proposal. If NASA awarded the contract to our company, it would mean years of work building the real thing.

  One evening, when I arrived home after 9:00, Angie met me at the door.

  "I'm starved. Let's go to Texas Grill."

  "A steak house? Now?"

  "Did I stutter?"

  I held my hands up, palms outward. “Texas Grill it is."

  We climbed into the aircar. I started the fans spinning, then depressed the elevator. The elevator clicked, the fans whined, then ... nothing. We remained solidly on the g
round.

  Angie rolled her eyes. “Fancy piece of junk,” she said. “What's the matter, run out of air?"

  "I don't understand it,” I said, toggling the elevator.

  "New technologies never seem to live up to the advertisements."

  "Maybe there's a faulty compressor."

  "Come on, get out,” she said. “We'll take my car."

  We jounced our way to the Grill in her ground Cavalier. That late on a Tuesday, the place was deserted, and we were seated right away.

  "Maybe the fan computer needs calibrating,” I said.

  "Will you be quiet about your car? I want to enjoy my meal."

  I ordered the baby back ribs. Angie ordered a sixteen-ounce medium-rare Delmonico steak with extra mushrooms.

  "What happened to the diet?” I asked.

  "This is the diet. If I crave it, the baby needs it. Today she wants protein."

  "Bloody carnivore."

  She glared at me. “I'm a bloody Amazon superwoman, is what I am."

  To my horror, she started to cry. I hadn't caught any warning signs. I had no idea what was wrong.

  "What is it?” I asked.

  She waved a hand in the air. “Nothing. It's just..."

  I held her hand across the table. “Just what?"

  "I hardly see you anymore. I know, you've got work; it's important; I don't want to keep you from it. It's just ... I'm alone so much, and ... I know it's probably just hormones, but...” She wiped her eyes with a napkin.

  "I'm sorry,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

  "Don't be sorry.” She straightened and folded her napkin. “I'll be all right now."

  "Would it help if I took a day off? We could spend a long weekend together, go down to Inner Harbor or Annapolis and take a sailboat out for a day."

  "You're such an engineer,” she said.

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means stop trying to fix me. I'm just feeling sad, that's all. It'll pass."

  "Can't I do anything to help?"

  "Just listen."

  I listened. She didn't say anything. We sat in silence for several minutes. I hated seeing her like this; she usually seemed so in control.

  "If your job moved somewhere else in the country,” she said finally, “would you follow it?"