Fiction
Science Fiction
The baby’s at it again. If I focus hard enough, I can hear its soft, desperate cries through the open door to the hall. And through all these warm shimmering layers of the Neural Net that I’ve so neatly allowed to overlap my mind in a deliberate attempt to continue working. Why oh why, I berate myself now, didn’t I think to shut the office door?
I try to ignore it for a little while longer. But it’s such a distraction, the way that its cries keep tugging at my mind. As bad as that clunking in our kitchen wall when all we want is something to eat.
Finally, I groan and give in. "I can’t work with it bawling like that," I say.
Rufus is sitting at the desk behind me. Though why I think he’s listening is totally beyond me.
I grab the calloused end of the socket-worm behind my ear and give it a yank, killing the connection. The worm makes a squishy sound on its way out, and I shudder, as usual, from the fluttering I feel deep down in my stomach.
On my desk, the Double-N’s interface fizzles to red and then sticks out its tongue at me. Sudden disconnections tend to make it cranky. I flip its spitty-wet sounds to mute, and twist my head around to listen, hoping beyond hope that the infant has somehow fallen back to sleep.
But no. I hear those same nasally cries it made at the Science Center yesterday, before I brought it home, this noisy little bundle of inconvenience.
I swivel around to look at Rufus, who’s slouched at his desk like he’s nodding off.
I complain to him anyway. "Didn’t that nurse promise—" I say. Then I glance at the floor, trying to remember. Yesterday. It seems so long ago already. The nurse’s face never quite materializes—there’s as much snow whirling in my brain these days as there is outside—but after a moment her words do. "Didn’t she say it’d sleep all day?"
Rufus looks at me through two gluey eyes that sag at the corners.
I sigh. "When was your last sleep cycle?"
"Dunno," he says, and rubs an eye, but doesn’t unplug. "Still running that butterfly search-string for work."
"Well, what do we do about that?" I toss my head toward the open door.
But I can see that Rufus has already slipped back into his three-D data world. His silvery face reflects the swift-darting shadows of blue butterflies fluttering across the interface.
I slap my desk and stand.
And, I’m pleased to say, Rufus flinches.
The newborn’s cries grow quick and desperate as I step into the nursery. Partially unwrapped boxes of care-worms litter the floor to the tiny room, and I straddle them on my way to the crib. Trying not to get too close, I crane my neck over the rail and peer down. The baby’s face is an angry red, and its two little fists are flailing about.
"Try picking it up," says Rufus from the doorway.
I toss him a why-don’t-you look. I can’t believe he actually unplugged.
Rufus shrugs.
With a fed-up growl, I slip my hands under the writhing infant and lift it to my chest, tubes and all. The tubes terminate at an outlet inside the crib. Careful not to dislodge them, I give the baby a hesitant pat on the back. Still, it keeps crying. "What now?"
Rufus steps into the room. There’s a thud and a box thumps over on its side. "Dangit!" he hollers, jumping up and down on a hairy foot. Swearing softly, he drops to his knees and rummages through a box. "Gotta be here somewhere," he says.
"What?"
"Fix-it worms." He moves to the next box and dumps it. "I thought someone gave us one of those twelve-step hoozie-whatssums."
The bundle I’m holding wriggles and wails. I swoop it through the air, but that doesn’t work either. "You’re mixing it up with those OC socket-worms." I raise an eyebrow, but he doesn’t notice. I caught him tossing his birthday gift in the recycler a few days ago. "The ones your mother gave you," I remind him.
Rufus is a total obsessive-compulsive when it comes to work. Then again, when I think about it, I’m getting there too.
"Here!" he says hastily, waving a thick plastic carton in the air. "Three cures for a noisy newborn."
I open my mouth but I don’t say anything. The baby’s getting heavy, and the swinging motion is making my muscles burn.
Rufus studies the label. Inside, the clear carton squirms with two small worms, each encased within its own perforated plastic bubble. Thankfully, they come with an insertion-rod, so we won’t have to scrounge around for one that’ll fit.
"Remedy only works if needed," reads Rufus aloud.
"What does that mean?"
"Dunno." He shrugs. "Step one. Check your newborn’s tubes for blockages." He glances up.
"What?" I say. "Me?"
"You’re closer."
Letting the annoyance show on my face, I trace the tubes with my free fingers, starting at the crib and ending at the baby. The feeding tube goes in through its belly button, and the other two, well, you know. I have to peek in its Snuggly, which I’m none too happy about. Neither, it seems, is the baby. "They look all right to me, I guess."
Rufus slides his finger down the label. "Step two. Expel unwanted gas."
Gross, I think. And I grimace at him.
"Using the enclosed i-rod," he says, "insert Belch-A-Worm into newborn."
"Your turn," I say.
"Great, thanks."
Rufus snaps the i-rod out of its plastic housing and, very gently, pops the first tiny bubble. After fumbling with the rod for a moment, he finally grasps the worm in its prongs. "Which ear?" he asks, stepping closer.
"Uh." I turn the loud, bleating infant over and probe the back of its earlobe. The flesh around the round plastic medi-lock still looks raw and inflamed, but a few more applications of alcohol will solve that. Until the new implant goes in, that is. "Left ear," I say, resting the infant on my shoulder.
Rufus steadies the baby’s forehead with five long fingers and inserts the worm into the medi-lock chamber. "There," he says.
The baby makes a wet guttural sound. Then a sudden warmth spreads down my back and soaks through my turtleneck. "Take it! Take it!" I say, thrusting the baby and its tubes at Rufus.
I peel off my shirt and ball it up with the spit-up inside. Outside, a strong gust of wind howls against the little round window to my left. Shivering, I use a dry corner of my wadded-up shirt to scrub at the sour-smelling wetness on my skin. That’s when I notice how quiet it is inside the house. I look up and realize the baby’s not crying. "Oh thank heaven," I groan. And I hurry off to my bedroom to change.
"Gen!" calls Rufus. "When does it get its permanent implant again?"
"Month from tomorrow," I shout back.
A minute later I reappear in a dry turtleneck. The baby’s lying in Rufus’s arms, blinking up at him with quiet wakefulness. Rufus smiles and holds out the infant.
"My boss is waiting on a report," I lie.
"Mine too."
"What if we try the other worm?"
Rufus shrugs. "Worth a shot." He wriggles the baby into my arms and picks up the package. "Step three. Using the same technique, insert Sleep-A-Worm into newborn."
He pops the next bubble.
Two hours later, exhausted and trembling, I lift the heavy-lidded infant over the side of the crib and onto the mattress, untangling its tubes so they won’t kink up. I hurry on back to the office.
Rufus slipped out a while back, making his usual lame excuses. I scowl at him now as I plop in my chair, but he’s too zoned out to even notice.
Remedy only works if needed, I remember. I scratch an itch on my neck and sigh. Problem was: The baby didn’t need to sleep right away.
But that’s over now and I lean forward and pluck my socket-worm out of a bowl of warm, gelatinous soup. Gently, I tug at its long spool of cord. Then I turn my head to the right and lift the worm to a connection-port behind my left ear. Just as the worm couples with my implant—and the Double-N shimmers to life around me—I hear the wheezy-soft cries of the baby again.
After four more days of this, I shuffle up to our kitchen’s Big Screen for dinner, moaning and waiting for Rufus to notice (just a, "Wow, Gen. You look so tired," would suffice).
He scrapes out a chair at the table behind me.
I’ve already begun to suspect the baby’s formula is involved here somehow. After all, the crying seems to start right after it’s fed. But we really can’t afford to be making any changes yet, since I bought the first month of its formula in bulk—a tiny little fact that I haven’t told Rufus. Last time he told me to call the doctor, I said the new formula was already being shipped. He hates to hear when I’ve wasted our money.
But the baby’s sleeping now, or at least it’s quiet, and I punch in our order. There’s a loud clunking in the wall, of course, but when I hit it with my elbow, it purrs into action. I turn and see Rufus going for a plug.
"Come on," I whine. "We need to talk."
He sets down the plug, and I see his hand trembling. "Gen," he says. There’s a flicker of concern in his hazy blue eyes. "You took a big hit on job-hours this week. If I can’t pick up the slack for the month, we’ve got to move back to the city." He lifts the plug to his ear again. "You know all this."
I do. But I also know how much he worked before the baby. It wasn’t much less.
The drawer dings and our food slides out.
I ease into my seat with a groan and set down two steaming orders of engineered-pork and beans. "Why did we have a baby again?"
"Taxes," says Rufus. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and lets it out. "Don’t worry. In a few weeks it’ll all be over." His eyes glaze over and he forks in his food on auto-pilot.
"Easy for you to say." But I can tell he’s no longer hearing me.
Next morning, after sitting up all night with the baby again, I sink into bed, pulling the blankets over my head. I reach across and feel the cold, rumpled sheets where Rufus had slept an hour before.
It only takes a whimper, and I end up bawling. It’s one of those odd, out-of-control experiences I remember having as a child when my parents died in the Big Freeze. I mean, the whole bed’s shaking and my cries are loud enough to bring Rufus running.
He peels back the covers and finds me with snot streaming from my nose to the pillow. His eyes are wide and he’s paying attention. "For Double-N’s sake," he says, "call the doctor again! Or do you want me to?"
Again, I think. If he only knew. I wish he’d slip into bed beside me, but he stands there ogling me like I’m out of my mind. I don’t really think he’s ever seen me cry.
"Gen!" he says.
"No, no, I’ll call him." And I wave him away with an air of impatience.
A few splashes of cold water on my face seem to revive me. With swollen eyes, I hobble to the office and collapse in my chair.
My interface has floated in suspend for so long that it lapsed into slumber. Its speakers snore softly, and its screen glows the silvery gray of a snow-pregnant sky.
Behind me, at his own desk, Rufus sits with his head bobbing in a semi-alert stupor. I barely glance at him.
I don’t feel like plugging in either, but Rufus is right. I’d better call the doctor. Although I worry about how much it’s going to cost us.
"Name?" barks the nurse as soon as I connect. A cut-out of her face hovers against a velvety blue background. My eyes drift down to her orange lipstick.
"Genevieve Bright."
"Problem?"
"My newborn cries a lot."
"Hold, please."
The nurse relegates me to a standby window, leaving nothing for me to do but sit and stare at the hospital’s big white curlicue logo.
After a while, there’s a blip on the interface.
The doctor’s broad, smiling face overlays the logo. His skin is a few shades paler than his teeth. When I glance at the time-stamp on the call, I realize I’ve been gaping at the screen for twenty-two minutes.
"Sounds like your newborn has colic," he says.
"Colic," I say with visible skepticism. "I thought you guys had already cured that."
"We’re quite close, yes." He nods and smiles. "I’ll need to tweak the infant’s nutrient line. Give me a sec here…" Looking lower on his screen, he taps a few keys, waits, hits a few more.
"There," he says. "Try that."
A window pops up in the bottom corner of my interface. A nutrient list for the new formula appears, along with the price.
"Wow," I say. It’s even more costly than I’d first imagined, and I’m instantly afraid of what Rufus will say. "Is it really necessary?"
"You tell me. Can you stand the crying?"
I lean back with a sigh. Rufus will just have to deal with it. What did he expect would happen anyway, when he told me to call? "When can you ship it over?" I ask.
"For a little extra, I’ll send out a skim-runner later today."
"All right," I tell him. Whatever it takes.
I unplug and push out of the chair.
There’s a thick round window fashioned after an old ship’s porthole in the wall near Rufus and, from the corner of my eye, I see a few flurries of snow outside. I shuffle over. With my hands resting on the cold curved sill, I gaze out at the harsh wintry landscape.
Snow sweeps away from the house in drifts, capping off big boulders and thickening the banks of a frozen stream. It weighs down the heavy green pine boughs, and lines the naked gray branches of the deciduous trees that lost their leaves two decades ago at the flowery height of spring.
Around the house, the wind has abated. But in the valley below, through a hazy lake of wind-blown snow, I see the frosty spires of the city stabbing upward like stalagmites.
Overhead, the sky glowers gray. Then a flash of sunlight pierces the clouds, making me wince.
Even through slits I can see it. A sudden brilliance casts the slope outside in a breathtaking contrast of whites, grays, greens. The trees cast bluish shadows on the snow and, in spite of the glassy distortion, the valley looks as bright and faceted as the tiny white gem on my finger. I think if I try, I can reach out and touch it.
My fingertips clink against cold glass.
So I back away. But not before I catch a glimpse of dark saggy eyes and wild blond hair staring back from the window.
That isn’t me, a part of me thinks. But as I turn, feeling the room’s cool breath against my teary cheeks, I realize I’m not so sure. Then I stumble out the door, across the hall, and tumble back into bed.
The rest of the day’s a bit of a blur. Sleeping and waking. Cradling the baby. Then staggering back into bed yet again. By the time that I drift off again after dinner, I can’t recall living any other way.
It’s dark when I wake. The clock says it’s two. The blankets feel warm and heavy, and I can hear Rufus’s slow, even breathing beside me.
There’s a faint noise from out in the hall.
Frowning, I lift my head from the pillow and hear the baby’s muffled cries off in the distance. "Rufus," I whisper. "Why’d you close the door?"
Sitting up, I flip off the covers and swing my socked feet onto the floor, amazed at how alert I feel after a few hours’ sleep. And that suddenly worries me. How long has the baby been crying, I wonder?
Quietly, I slip the door closed behind me and pad down the hall to the nursery. I’ve stacked the boxes to one side of the room at least, so I no longer face an obstacle course.
When I lift the baby out of the crib, I notice that the tiny green screen in the crib reads ‘Full.’ The skim-runner must have arrived while I slept. It shouldn’t be long until the new formula kicks in.
With swift-moving fingers, I detach the baby’s tubes from the crib, reattach them to a small portable pump, and sit with the child in a nearby chair, wrapping us both in a blanket. His weak little head bobbles against me like he’s looking for something.
"What is it, little one?" I say, realizing then that he’s near my breast. Oh, I think. That. I’m not even sure if I’d know what to do.
After stealing a glance at the door, I loosen the blankets and tug up my sleep-shirt, surprised by the prickle as he draws out my milk. I haven’t dried up, so that’s a relief, and I slide my finger down his nose.
The pump whirs softly, and I switch it off.
The baby whimpers against my breast.
"Shhhh," I say. I smooth back the downy fluff on his head, and we huddle like that in the gloom as I hum a few bars of some ancient lullaby I can’t remember the words from.
"What!" Rufus drops a forkful of eggs onto his plate with a clink. "You canceled the implant?" His eyes are a map of tiny red rivers.
I drop my hands in my lap and stare at them. "We can’t afford it right now."
"You didn’t think twice about shelling out for that pricey formula."
I feel myself sag. "That was a necessity. And besides," I say. "You told me to call."
Rufus ignores that. "Look at you," he says. "You can’t sleep. You can’t work. The baby’s taking up all your time."
What I don’t tell him is that the new formula seems to be working—the baby’s crying less and sleeping more—while I, in fact, am doing the reverse. "You’re earning just enough to cover the bills," I say. "An implant will put us over the top."
"We’ll make it back with your next month’s salary."
"I’m not sure if I want to work anymore."
He laughs but he’s not smiling. "Tell me another one."
I bite my lip to keep it from trembling. "Maybe I like being a mother."
Rufus shoves away his plate and stares at me.
"That’s it," he says, pushing up to his feet. "I’ll call back the doctor myself. Do I need to make an appointment for you too?"
He waits for me to shake my head, and then tromps down the hall back to the office.
Two weeks later, the skim-runner pulls alongside the house in a spray of snow. Rufus, anchoring a scarf to his face with his free hand, wheels the baby on while I drag behind in big, cloddy boots. We take a seat along the far wall of the windowless craft, loosening our scarves and nothing else, since it’s not heated. But at least it shuts out the wind.
The skim-runners are all unmanned these days. And since we’re so far out of the city, we’re the first ones on. I can’t believe I’m letting him do this.
There’s a soft rushing sound as the doors close. My stomach rolls as we lift from the snow and glide forward on a thin cushion of air. Though to be honest, I felt queasy before we got on.
I begged Rufus to cancel the implant. Said I was too scared. Of infections, for instance. Let’s just wait a little, I said. But he insists I have to get back to work.
I’ve been sitting quietly in the nursery most nights now, until the sky outside brightens to a dull white and the heat rumbles on in the house. Not because the baby wakes me. He doesn’t anymore. But the stillness fills me with a strange new peace.
I glance at Rufus. He’s not plugging in, and I expected him to. Instead he’s bouncing his legs like an old street junky.
Me, I feel like I’m frozen, though not from the cold. It suddenly occurs to me. What if I run?
We make more stops as we enter the city. In a gust of wind, the riders straggle on in their snow-and-ice-matted polar bear parkas.
Panicked, I stare at the arrivals info marching along the wall overhead. "Next stop," it announces, "Retrofit Science Center."
"Finally," says Rufus, and my heart does a flutter-hop.
Two minutes later, the skim-runner shivers to a stop. The doors open, and we’re buffeted by an icy blast. With a toss of his scarf, Rufus jumps up and guides out the stroller before I can grab it. He leads the way across a small connecting bridge and through two sets of sliding doors, while I come trailing after.
"Your turn, folks."
A heavy nurse in a blue smock frowns at us from across the waiting room. She’s standing at a black set of swinging doors, propping the left one open with her hand.
I manage to grab the stroller this time. My mind screams, Turn! Run! But I can’t seem to do it. I’ve never been alone or homeless or without any money. How will I feed us? Where will we live?
Our wet boots squeak against the floor as the nurse leads us down the hall to a small room with a high padded table and a couple of chairs. It’s cool inside and I leave on my coat.
I scan the shiny tools on the walls.
Just that quick, I think, Okay. I’ll find an illegal shelter. I’ll make it work. But another voice hollers how crazy I sound. All babies get their implants after the first month. And Rufus will try to find us. Won’t he?
"Put it on the table," says the nurse. Her voice is high and clipped and I don’t think I like her.
Leaning down, I snap the baby out of his restraints. Before I can even lift him onto the table, the nurse snatches him away and lays him down to check his tubes. The baby’s wailing now and I set the portable pump next to him.
I reach out and say, "Let me—"
The nurse holds up a hand. "Don’t encourage it," she says. Finishing up, she gives my baby a couple of rough pats that are supposed to be soothing. "The doctor will be right in." Then she hustles on out and closes the door.
Rufus drops into a chair, looking pale and shaky without a place to plug in.
The baby’s still crying, and I lay my hand on his chest. He turns his little head toward me.
In bursts the doctor, and I jerk around.
"Wow," he says. "Haven’t heard one that loud in a few years."
Loud? I think. I must be getting used to it.
Striding across the room, he grabs a long plug with teeth and yanks it out of the wall. "I can make quick work of that."
"Wait!" I say. "I’m not ready yet."
"Gen—" growls Rufus.
"Don’t be silly," says the doctor. "It’ll be over in a wink."
But now I’m warm with vigor. Scooping up the baby and his pump, I reel toward the door.
A hand brushes my shoulder.
"Gen!" yells Rufus. "You’re not thinking."
I surge into the hall with the baby jostling in my arms and crying. "It’s okay," I say, smiling, in a big breathy voice. "It’ll all be okay." Somehow I’ll figure it out.
Using the back of my arm, I blow through the swinging doors and almost collide with a couple in the waiting room. I shove past them and tear for the exit.
There’s a bang. Rubber shoes squeal to a stop behind me.
"Stop her!" someone shouts.
I’m at the exit. The first set of doors whisks open and I’m already through them. The second pair opens. A cold gust smacks me in the face. I’ve never been happier to feel so frigid.
Just as my boots crunch on the snow, two hands seize me from behind and drag me back inside.
"No!" I scream.
Someone holds me, while another pries my fingers off the baby.
"Please," I cry through a hot flow of tears. "I need more time."
"Hold her a minute," says someone behind me. It sounds like the doctor.
I shriek and flail as the nurse turns away with my child. Someone else cuts away at my coat.
"Don’t worry," they say, though not to me. "You’d be surprised how many of these we get."
I feel a sharp, painful prick in my arm.
Then everything’s still and silent, and something like snowclouds float across my field of vision. My knees give way and I teeter back into someone’s arms.
"Easy now," they say and the clouds engulf me.
It’s bright. I open my eyes and blink up at the ceiling.
"Ah," says the doctor. "She’s coming around."
I groan. There’s a dull throbbing in my head. Lifting my hand, I feel the thickened end of a socket-worm there. "What—"
"You’re going to be fine," says the doctor. He slips the worm out of my implant. "So’s the baby."
That’s right, I think. I came here with the baby.
Turning my head so my cheek rests on the smooth padded table, I look over at Rufus.
He steps out of the way.
Behind where he stood, the baby reclines in the stroller. A thin cord hangs across his chest and disappears behind one ear. They’ve plugged him into a rolling Double-N interface cart.
"Congratulations," says the doctor, giving my shoulder a squeeze. "No more crying."
All three of us stare at my glassy-eyed child.
"Look, Gen," says Rufus. "Isn’t it cute?"
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Copyright 2008, Kristal M. Johnson. All rights reserved. In 2002, Kristal left corporate writing life behind to raise two precious boys, and pursue her lifelong dream of writing fiction. Her short stories have appeared in "Dragons, Knights & Angels" and "MindFlights," and have placed among the top winners of the "Writer's Digest" Annual Writing Competition.
Kristal and her husband, Derrick, live in New York with their sons, eight loud guitars, two thunderous drum kits, and two sweet cats in a hurry to hide. She's currently working on a post-apocalyptic novel set in the Hudson River Valley. You can read some of her previously published works at www.kristaljohnson.com.
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