sure that any kids I fathered would be better equipped to live in the future we’re heading for. Isn’t that what you want too?”
“Sure I do,” she said. “You and your mate must have had a fine time listening to Jackie ramble on about the tactics of biological warfare. Abstract expressionism—a load of Jackson Pollocks. If you’re here because they’ve ordered you to be a good father, I’d rather you didn’t bother. I’d rather stick to plan A, warts and all.”
She watched his face carefully, but couldn’t judge the exact extent of his relief. The fact that he changed the subject was a bit of a giveaway, though.
“How much did Gilfillan tell you?” he asked, warily.
“Just enough,” she replied, confidently. “He told me about imprinting. I’d never heard of that, but it’s a neat idea. The womb as an eternal battleground, where every mother and her child are locked into a struggle for resources. Makes all that old kin selection stuff seem quaintly sentimental, doesn’t it? At the end of the day, it’s all warfare—even motherhood. We all get caught by friendly fire if our defenses get leaky. There’s a certain irony in the fact that a perfect carrier is so hard to carry to term… but I can see the upside now. You’re absolutely right about my kid being better equipped than most to live in the future we’re designing. And I can see the next step in the argument, too—the side effects side effect. I can see the
Lieutenant Lunsford hesitated a lot longer than Dr. Gilfillan had, and when he did speak, all he said was: “Ah.”
“Jackie was right, wasn’t she?” Jenny said. “Okay, maybe it’s not that easy to design, manufacture or spread viruses that will sterilize women or feminize men—but that’s not the name of the game, is it? Expressionism is the way to go. You don’t have to invent bioweapons when they’re already built in, when all you have to do is upset the balance of power. You don’t have to sterilize women if you have a means of doing to them what you’ve done to me… or the opposite. It really doesn’t matter, weaponwise, whether it’s the mother or the fetus that gets the upper hand in the eternal struggle—just so long as natural selection’s carefully negotiated balance is upset. Either the kids become too difficult to carry, or they’re starved of resources before birth. A lose-lose situation—unless, of course, you’re the enemy. Which we will be. After all, we’re the ones with the fancy hospitals and the hi-tech medicine. As usual, it’ll be the rich that get the pleasure, and the poor that pay the price.”
“You’re a tax accountant,” the lieutenant said, brutally. “Would you want it any other way?”
“Speaking as an early casualty in this particular war,” Jenny said, “no. But I still think you’re an utter bastard, whether I lied about the pill or not. You can’t excuse the casualties of friendly fire by saying that you thought they were wearing flak jackets.”
“You’re right,” he said, although his heart wasn’t in it. “But if you need me, I’m around. All you have to do is ask. Your son is my only child, so far, and the way things are going, he might have to wait quite a while for a little brother or sister—so I’m not sorry about what happened, all things considered.”
Jenny opened her to mouth to say “I am,” but she couldn’t shape the words. She was exhausted, she was being kicked black and blue from inside, she was paranoid, and she was probably even a little delirious, but she couldn’t quite manage to be sorry. She was a victim of friendly fire, and she was carrying the spawn of Satan, and she was a complete idiot, and she was
“You can go now,” she said to him, eventually. “I think I might be able to go to sleep now.
For breakfast Jenny had a big bowl of cornflakes sprinkled with sultanas, followed by three croissants with butter and strawberry jam, a bowl of mixed fruits, including slices of melon, pineapple, oranges and kiwifruit, washed down with half a liter of apple and mango juice and a single cup of black coffee without sugar. Then she had a couple of rounds of toast with butter and lime marmalade. She’d never felt so virtuous in all her life, but she would have killed for half a dozen rashers of crispy bacon.
When she’d finished, she called Jackie. Jackie was already at work, but this time she had her mobile switched on. “I’m ready,” she said. “Just say the word, and I’ll be there before the contractions have got into gear.”
“It’s not time yet,” Jenny assured her. “Any day now, any way now, I
“You sound a lot saner than you did yesterday,” Jackie observed.
“I was always sane,” Jenny assured her. “It’s the world that’s mad. I saw Lieutenant Lunsford again, but he didn’t seem to enjoy it. He’s glad he’s a dad, I think, but that doesn’t mean he wants to complete the mission. Isn’t it always the way?”
“Great to hear you so cheerful,” Jackie said. “Must go now. Get them to call me the minute the dam bursts.”
“I will,” Jenny assured her. Then she called Steve. Miraculously, he answered too.
“It’s okay,” she told him. “The kid’s healthy, and I’m in safe hands. Expect to be an uncle some time in the next twenty-four hours.”
“What the hell was all that stuff about the army picking you up?” Steve wanted to know.
“I’ve joined up. I can’t explain why—it’s a need-to-know sort of thing. I’m okay, though. As well as can be expected, and maybe better. I’ll call when I can. Bye.”
She put the phone under her pillow, wondering how long it would be before they served lunch, and whether they’d let her have elevenses between. She was, after all, eating for two—and there was a war on.
Copyright
Reprint Edition November 25, 2008
ISBN: 1-4165-5519-6
