by Tom Andry
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Five years ago. We were at City Hospital. Doc Arts, the best and the brightest in ranks of the super geniuses, had insisted. Back then it was thought that super/tippy cross-couplings couldn't produce a child. At least not a healthy one. Most women miscarried and tippy girls were afraid that babies with powers would come ripping out of their stomachs. Of course, that's never happened. Children rarely display any super powers before adolescence and less often in the womb. That didn't stop the old wives from talking.
Gale and I met on campus; she was studying meteorology and I think I was in Poly Sci (though that may have been during my Psychology phase). Supers were becoming increasingly common though there was still a lot of fear and resentment among the general population. The early nineties were the heyday of the super registration movement and there was a lot of strife. The more law-abiding supers immediately registered. Others took some convincing. After years of fighting, the super civil war was settled when world governments decided that they'd allow a borderless Super State. Registration became voluntary for all, but mandatory to be counted as a citizen. As the Super State quickly became the richest country in the world, supers soon didn't need much persuasion to sign up.
We met a couple of years before the establishment of the Super State, around 1998. She had kept her powers hidden and really didn't come out until I gave her some encouragement. We dated for nearly three years and got married just before she became a full-fledged member of the State in 2002. I finally got a degree in General Studies (code for: seriously, just get out and get a job already), a degree for the working professional. Gale and I worked odd jobs until she started getting her stipend. At that time, it was just enough to live on.
When Gale got pregnant, three years into our marriage, we were both shocked. Conventional wisdom said it shouldn't happen and, frankly, we'd been less than careful with protection both before and during our marriage. We'd just assumed it would never happen. But it did. At first, we didn't talk about it, thinking she'd miscarry or something. After a few months, she started to show (you can't hide even a small baby bump in spandex) so we had to announce it. Sort of. Gale stopped gallivanting around trying to make a name for herself and she quietly asked around for the best doctor. Doc Arts was at the top of everyone's list.
Even back then, when he still had all his original parts, he was considered the best. He'd already stopped two super viruses, a plague, and had developed a counteragent to a gas designed to wipe the memories of everyone on the planet. He didn't want to see Gale until he learned that I didn't have powers. At that point, we became his pet project. For four months we were at his beck and call. We even moved into his building (back then he lived in a posh downtown penthouse apartment) in a place that cost twice as much with half the space. Sometimes we'd see him twice a day, sometimes not for several days. When we did see him, his enthusiasm was infectious. He talked on and on - as he scanned, prodded, and poked the both of us - about how groundbreaking this birth would be. The first tippy/super child. The first cross-birth. It would be a milestone. The child would bridge the gap between the two communities and would be the first step toward showing both sides that we really weren't so different.
When the big day came, we rushed to the hospital. Doc Arts wanted the birth to be a public spectacle, but Gale and I had refused. Really, it was more Gale. I probably would have gone along with it. As it was, Arts had a press conference standing by and filmed the entire birth. An entire wing of the hospital was cleared out. All the best equipment was on hand and I could barely fit in the room with all the nurses, attendants and filming crew. Gale, as always, looked amazing as she fought through the pain. Outside, a storm of epic proportions battered the hospital, complete with lightning, hail, and, I found out later, a small tornado. Prepared for anything, we had generators at the ready and the lights didn't so much as flicker.
Gale probably screamed. I can't say I remember that specifically but I'm sure she did. Doc Arts was there, narrating for the camera as much as he directed Gale. Nurses encouraged her, held her hand, wiped her brow. It was, in every sense of the word, a circus. I remember at one point, Gale looked over at me. Her hair was matted down with sweat, a stray curl escaping the moisture and remaining upright. Her hazel eyes were wild, as if she were looking for a way to escape her own body. I remember the moment our eyes met. She didn't see me - I know that. She was looking inward. But I saw her. And she was beautiful. She was bringing my child into the world and, at that moment, with the blood and the sweat and the storm and the tears, I couldn't love her more.
And then it all went wrong.
Doc Arts held up the baby. “A little girl,” he announced to the camera.
Gale held out her arms to receive the child, calling out the name we had chosen - Abigail. Doc Arts cut the cord and suddenly the baby stopped crying. The room went silent. Slowly, dark blotches started appearing on the baby's skin. Gale was screaming again. I might have too; I don't know. All I know is that they whisked the baby away. And then Gale and I were alone in the room. Me over by the wall where I had been pushed by the crowd, her in the bed, legs still elevated. She didn't look at me. She just wept.