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Helen Wyatt-Norton took her first little green-striped capsule in the wet, miserable early winter of 2013 -- just two weeks before Christmas. It was the year of the Thanksgiving Riots, the year that the first CIC power plant went online in Canada, the year that the number of Kabinda virus deaths in North America first passed the number of traffic fatalities. That was the year President Stewart appeared on television in a Santa Claus hat, assuring a troubled nation that if they just had faith, everything would be all right in the coming year. He lied. After three clerks in Insurance Verification caught Kabinda and died in agony that autumn, and the public-service staff threatened to walk off unless they had better protection from the unwashed hordes, M.V.A. management authorized additional non-conventional medical benefits. One of Helen's coworkers in License Renewal referred her to a friend, who called another friend, who met her downtown in the middle of the night. The friend-of-a-friend, a pleasant Mexam woman about Helen's age, took her M.V.A. chit and left her a bottle of the green capsules. Miruvorane, first of a long-promised new generation of "benign antivirals," was still pending FDA approval -- but Helen, like millions of other Americans, couldn't wait. Honduras and Nicaragua had both legalized the drug; as long as everyone had friends enough, there was no shortage in North America. Miruvorane immunized the body against a whole suite of viruses, Kabinda being the most notable, without toxic effects. The first few days, Helen had some minor headaches, but then she thought no more about it. One capsule every three days, with dinner, became a familiar routine. And there were no more cases of Kabinda at the Motor Vehicles Administration. In late January, Helen found out that she was two and a half months pregnant. She was reasonably sure of the date; Joel's unit had departed for Eritrea early in November; since then, they'd netsexed a couple of times, but last she heard, they hadn't gotten around to improving netsex that much. She told him the happy news that evening, and he promised to be home for the birth even if he had to swim. Her obstetrician, Doctor Anthony, didn't know about the miruvorane. She ran a few searches on the Nets and found no agreement among virologists. Some pooh-poohed the notion that miruvorane could pose any danger to a developing fetus. Others did not agree; violent discussions broke out on several virology nets, and after two weeks of this someone with sufficient authority decided to prove her point and submitted a simulation to the Virtual Heredity Analyzer. By the time the problem reached the top of the priority queue and the AIs delivered their verdict -- "after t-plus 71.4 megaseconds, the system becomes too chaotic for meaningful analysis or prediction" -- it was already too late for Helen, along with an estimated 150,000 women worldwide. No one could say for sure that the babies would be affected -- but neither could anyone say for sure that they wouldn't. And no one ventured any prediction as to what the effects might be. She felt the baby start moving in mid-February. But it wasn't until a month later that Helen began feeling an odd sort of tingle in her viscera. Sometimes it was a feather-touch, gone before she was sure it had happened; sometimes a sort of electric tingle that marched up her spine and down her breastbone, or spiralled down one leg. Occasionally, the sensation was more pronounced, a cross between a cramp and indigestion, moving through her body as if an army were on the march from her liver to her lungs. She mentioned the feelings to Doctor Anthony, and felt like growling as the man reassured her with a patronizing smile. He gave her some pills to take -- she suspected placebos but took them anyway. They did not help. By the middle of the fifth month, in April, the baby began to kick. Faint stirrings became blows with all the force of a star quarterback; as the month progressed, Helen found herself doubling over in sudden pain, or rocking back and forth in bed to the pummeling in her viscera. This child didn't just kick -- it punched and elbowed and karate-chopped its way through her gut, sometimes for half an hour at a time before it gave up and went to sleep. Doctor Anthony examined her, and this time he wasn't patronizing. "I don't like the look of this. There's a good deal of bruising on your abdomen. What have you been doing, boxing with your customers?" "It's the baby kicking," Helen said, through clenched teeth. "That would be a remarkable baby, to cause visible bruising on your skin." He slid instruments into position. "I want to take another ultrasound, just to make sure everything is okay." "Do your worst." Cold metal moved across her bare skinbut it wasn't the chill that made goosebumps rise on Helen's arms. As an image took shape on the monitor, she expected the cloudy contours of a curled-up baby. Instead, there within the ghostly outline of her own body was a smooth ovoid, sharp-edged and completely black -- as if she bore, not a baby, but a large, hard-shelled egg. "Allah!" Doctor Anthony breathed, making it half curse and half prayer. "What the pell is going on?" "Helen, don't get excited. That'sa weird picture, but it's just a malfunction of the equipment. A spurious image. I'll send you down the hall to another instrument." He seemed to be talking as much for his own reassurance as for hers, as he thrust the bulky ultrasound emitter away. "Tell you what, I want to do another amniocentesis anyway. I'll have the nurse get you ready." He backed to the door. "Doctor, what's wrong with my baby?" "Nothing. Nothing at all. If anything's wrong, it's with our imaging system. That's got to be it. I'll call the computer room right now, see if they can send someone up to fix it." A plastic, magazine-ad smile. "Everything's going to be just fine." Two hours later, only after sedating mother and baby, Doctor Anthony managed to get both amniotic fluid samples and good ultrasound images. As far as he could tell from the images, nothing was wrong with the child. No gross physical abnormalities, no deformations, no missing or extra limbs. Near as he could tell, all internal organs were in place and functioning, fingers and toes were normal, the little pixie face was completely unremarkable. Then why did he have six needles damaged beyond repair in attempted amniocentesis? Three were bent, two seemed to have been melted, and one was broken off cleanly. And why those mysterious images of what seemed to be an impenetrable shell surrounding the small body? He tried to reassure Helen Norton, while at the same time hastening her out the door. "We won't know for sure until the amnio tests come back," he said, "But just from looking at your baby, she seems to be healthy and normal in every respect. You can see that yourself from the ultrasound." He gave her a copy of the disk; otherwise, she'd be in his office all afternoon studying it. "As for the kicking, I hesitate to interfere with her development. A twenty-four week baby sleeps ninety percent of the time, in a fairly consistent cycle. Keep track of when the kicking episodes occur, and you'll learn when she's usually awake." "B-but what about those images? And the needles? You can't tell me that's normal." He raised an eyebrow. "A malfunctioning scanner and a bad batch of hypodermics -- unfortunately, that is all too normal nowadays. My fault, really. I should have tested those needles when I opened the box. I do apologize." "But -- " He took her arm and applied firm pressure in the direction of the billing desk. "We'll give you a call when the test results are in. Until then, there's really nothing else I can tell you." With her successfully out the door, he closed it and went back to his desk. He punched the intercom. "Tony, something's come up. Reschedule the rest of the day." Without waiting for an answer, he punched his keyboard. The first issue of The Journal of Miruvorane-Affected Pregnancy and Birth had hit the Net a week before, and already the case-study database was over fifty gigs. He knew that three of his patients were at risk, and he suspected two more. Norton's odd developments argued some kind of abnormality -- and miruvorane was the most likely suspect. Soon, he knew that this case was unique. No one had yet seen -- or, at least, reported -- anything like it. Anthony clicked the command to upload his data, and read further while the files transferred. A one-in-a-million case like this could make him a formidable reputation. If he played his cards right, a chair at some wealthy university. Maybe even a directorship. Helen didn't know what to think. She would have to speak with Joel; his level-headed, calm approach to even the worst calamity was exactly what she needed now. Without him, she'd never have gotten through her parents' death last year. First, though, she had to stop at the grocery store. It was getting on toward dark, and she wanted to be home -- but she was completely out of milk, and the ice cream situation was approaching critical. She'd better do it on the way; once she was home, she knew she wouldn't make another trip out. Everyone else, it seemed, had the same idea. The parking lot was packed -- even the half-dozen spaces up front, set aside for pregnant women, were filled. She briefly considered going to the 7-11 for milk, then remembered a few other things she needed. With a sigh, she pulled into a space far from the store, then heaved herself out of the car and started trudging in the chilly twilight wind. The man, a shadowy figure in dark clothes, jumped from between two cars and had Helen around the throat before she could react. "Don't move." Something was across her eyes; she was blindfolded. His breath, hot against her cheek, smelled of tobacco. She felt something poke her in the side, and looked down past the clumsy blindfold to see the cold steel of a gun. "Get back here." He pulled her between the cars. "Put down your purse." She dropped the purse. The man's body pressed against hers. Nunn it, there was something she was supposed to be doing, but panic had blanked her mind. Scream? Don't scream? Kick him? No, that was a bad idea, he'd grab her leg and tumble her to the pavement. Stomp on his footbut surely then he'd shoot -- ? "My husband is a cop," she said. Maybe the threat of police retaliation? "Don't worry, I'm not going to leave any evidence behind." He jabbed harder with the gun. "Now get those slacks off." "For God's sake, I'm six months pregnant!" "Then you'd better not do anything to hurt your little baby, eh?" He spun her around, pressed her against a car. She felt the cold metal against her back, his hot body insistent against her stomach and blileys and thighs. Baby kicked, and Helen thought, Oh, no, not now -- then her attacker convulsed with a grunt, doubled over, fell away from her. She ripped the blindfold away and saw the man hunched over as if in pain, the gun forgotten on the ground near her purse. While he cursed and screamed, she picked up the gun and aimed it at him. "Back off," she said. "Jesus, lady, what did you do to me?" "You'll get more unless you march. Now!" Halfway to the store, he collapsed and could not get up. By then, they'd attracted attention; a black woman in security uniform ran up and took the gun from Helen's shaking hands. "What happened here?" "He tried to rape me. Ihit him as hard as I could." The man started retching, and in the orange light from a utility pole, Helen saw blood. "Well, sister, you done him good. Congratulations." The guard clicked on her radio and called "Attempted rape at Fresh Value Southgate. Suspect down and injured; send an ambulance." She clicked off and turned back to Helen. "You okay?" "I-I think so." "Look, there's going to be messy paperwork and all kinds of fuss you don't want to be involved in. Get back in your car and drive home, I'll say I found him here. Okay?" "Thank you." Helen got to her car as fast as she could, and drove away without looking back. A week later she ran into the same security guard, and asked about the man. "Took him to the hospital -- man, he was in bad shape. Bleeding inside, intestines all messed up, herniasit's a wonder he could move, much less jump somebody. Must've been so high he was in orbit." "Idid all that?" The woman laughed. "Honey, you couldn't have damaged him that much. The hospital said it was some kind of traumatic injury like getting hit by a bus." "I'd like to know more. Can you tell me what hospital?" "Child, I'll tell you, but it isn't going to do you any good. He didn't live through the night." She inspected her fingernails. "Best thing, scum like that. He'd been arrested twice on attempted rape. The world's a better place, now." Helen finished her shopping and went home, wondering if she should tell someone -- the police, Doctor Anthony, anyone. But would they believe her? Officer, my unborn child killed a man. It was self-defense, but she killed him nonetheless. And even if they did believe her -- what could anyone possibly do? In the last week of April Helen Wyatt Norton, every bit of six months pregnant, was admitted to the hospital for treatment of minor internal bleeding and a week of bed rest. It wasn't a very peaceful time for her -- the baby was more active than ever and the doctors wouldn't give her painkillers that were strong enough. That week, Miruvorane Babies began to emerge from the womb. From Japan and Singapore, from Moscow and London, from New York and Mexico City, reports trickled into the databanks and showed up on the evening news. Babies with fur, babies with multiple eyes and ears, babies with bony plates over their joints, acephalic babies with only minimal brains, stillborn babies by the dozens, then hundreds. Babies who looked perfectly normal but whose bodies couldn't manufacture essential enzymesalbino babiesbabies with six, seven, eight fingers and toesbabies with no arms or legs, or two sets of eachbabies normal on the left but deformed on the right, or normal above and misshapen below babies with extra hearts, spleens, livers, brainson and on, random mutations completely unlike the specific teratogenicity of any other drugs. The parade went on and on, turning some delivery rooms into scenes from Hieronymous Bosch. Medical science did what it could, to keep the children alive. And each one was tested, cataloged, correlated, the results fed into the databanks in case they might help others. Doctor Anthony moved to the newly-formed Abnormal Birth & Pediatrics Center at Johns Hopkins, bringing all of his patients along. Although he continued to reassure Helen, she spent more and more of her time watching the news-nets, feeling the baby inside her, and crying. Joel was sympathetic, and she appreciated that, but he had no real help to offer her. How could he, half the world away and with no idea of what was really going on? He was due home at the end of July, about the time the baby was due; she held onto that fact the way a true believer held onto the hope of salvation. She and Joel had faced a lot, together. As a team, they were more than either or both could be alone. Baby would come, and they'd tackle that problem the way they had tackled so many others. She started singing to Baby, that week in the hospital, and it seemed to help. When the child began to stir, Helen curled up and sang, lullabies and popular songs and anything she could think of, sometimes just making up nonsense words. And Baby quieted, while its strange power throbbed in time. In May there was an Indian summer, a week of bright sun and warm breezes without the awful humidity that was to come. Helen took walks, at lunch time and after she came home from work. She strolled past playgrounds, and watched other people's children laughing, climbing, swinging, smiling. Would Baby be like these other children? Would she do the same things? Would she grow tall enough to reach the monkey bars, big enough to climb up the sliding board? Sometimes she picked a bench, and stretched out to rest. The sun was warm on her belly, and Baby seemed to like that, too. By now Helen was used to the feel of ghostly fingers touching her insides, to odd movements of her blouse or slacks, as Baby explored her world. She's going to be smart, Helen thought. Look at all the sensory input she's getting already. She turned to watch the other parents with their bundles of joy. None of those parents will know what it's like, to have a child as special as ours. Then, although Helen had no formal religion and certainly wasn't in the habit of praying, she thought, Please, God, don't let her be retarded. I think I could cope with anything, but that. The next week winter struck a last counter-blow, with sleet and freezing rain. Helen didn't even try to go to work; she stayed home, watched the nets, and tried to calm Baby. The little one didn't like the weather any better than her mother, and was constantly cranky -- kicking, punching, twisting so hard that Helen was doubled up in pain half the time. Singing helped, but only a little, and only for a while. On Friday, groggy from lost sleep and with a cold coming on, Helen retreated to bed. She downed acetaminophin like they were candies, which helped calm Baby too. Throughout the day her temperature climbed and she grew increasingly groggy. After half an eternity, she realized that she should tell the doctor, and reached for the phone -- but it was in the other room, and she didn't know the number, and a nameless fear paralyzed her until she fell into uneasy dreams of playgrounds and bloody-faced children so tall that they blotted out the sun. It was Joel who saved her. Getting no answer to repeated calls, he telephoned Doctor Anthony and gave him the passcode to their apartment. Anthony dispatched paramedics, then logged onto their realtime report channel. "She's in bed, apparently unconscious. Christ, she's burning up. There's a pulse. Ninety-five and steady. Wait a minute, she's coughed up blood." "She's pregnant," Anthony said. "Check the baby." At the same time, he punched for a medevac copter. "Still there. She's bruised all over the abdomen. Probably a lot of internal bleeding. Hold on, I just felt the baby kick." A moment later, the paramedic yelped. "Jesus!" "What?" "You're not going to believe this -- but I could swear the kid bit me." "I'm sending medevac. First aid, whatever you can do, but don't sedate her. Get her to Hopkins Premature stat. I'll be there." He punched the button that direct-dialled to his office. "Kevin? Listen to me, I'm sending Helen Norton in by chopper. Get over to Premature and prep for a crash delivery. Tell them we're just short of seven months, and we're probably going to need an awful lot of help." Without waiting for an answer, he punched another button and ordered his office computer, "Send an ambulance to pick me up. And have someone call Helen Norton's husband in Eritrea. Tell him we're inducing labor, and he should get back here by the fastest means possible." Taking a deep breath, the doctor raced out the door. She was in bad shape. Anthony started her on whole blood immediately -- her own blood, stored at liquid nitrogen temperature until it was needed. He considered inducing laborbut she was already weak, and the baby was tearing up her insides. No telling what it would do in response to labor. "Local," he ordered. "I'm going C-section." At the first touch of the needle, Helen Norton bolted upright, screaming. "No! Stop it! She doesn't want you to hurt her!" Two nurses held her down, while an obviously-frightened anesthetist struggled with his equipment. "Quiet, Helen. Quiet. We're going to take her out now. She doesn't have anything to fearand neither do you." Helen's eyes met his. "She doesn't mean it," she whispered. "She doesn't know what she's doing." Masked, he forced his best reassuring smile onto his face, hoping that enough of it would carry through his eyes. "Then why don't you both leave it to the experts?" "Tell Joel I love him. And I love her. She has to know that. She hasto know. " The gas did its work, and Helen settled limply to the table. Doctor Anthony turned to the task at hand, lifting a scalpel and holding it a few inches above taut skin. He could see the baby, or at least its influence, moving beneath the skin. It certainly hadn't descended, not this earlywhere best to make the incision? He felt his hand, scalpel and all, pushed away -- and Baby made the decision for him. All at once Helen's water broke, her abdomen pulsed, and skin abruptly shredded like a slow-motion movie of a balloon popping. A tiny arm appeared, then the head, wet and dripping, twitching wildly. A moment later, it cried. Anthony didn't even have to check. One look at what remained of Helen's organs, battered and torn by Baby's last assault, told him that she would never awaken. In certainty, if not in actual fact, she was dead. In blood and water, out of pain and death, Baby Norton had come into the world. Task Force on Miruvorane™-Affected Births STATISTICAL SUMMARY(May not total due to duplication of categories)
"The tally of human misery and individual tragedy concealed by the figures above will never be fully known. This is a tragedy that touches not only the families directly concerned, but every one of us. Though only a drop in an ocean of human woe, these figures touch us all as no others can. These lives sacrificed were not fellow participants in the world's miseries, in patriotism, ethnic pride, territorial gain, economic greed, or even blunt hatred. These lives belonged to the only ones on this sorry planet who could truly be called innocents. They were not sacrificed for any cause, however noble or ignoble -- they were not sacrificed for any great plan, divine or human -- they were sacrificed merely by accident, by terrible mistake, by carelessness. We think we have learned, but we have not. There will be other mistakes, if perhaps none as grievous. And this shameful episode in our history, a true slaughter of the innocents, will haunt us all from now until the day we die." Vavrinec Divizich, |
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