Expect the Unexpected

by John A. Broussard

  Romily was pleased Tia was in a mood to at least listen to the sales presentation. When they had first seen the ads for GeneShare, Romily had had difficulties hiding his enthusiasm. Tia had been unmoved. “Look, Tia,” he insisted, “the law’s clear. We can have only two children. Why shouldn’t we have the absolute best, at least for the first one?”

  Tia couldn’t repress a smile at his earnestness. In some ways, Romily was very childlike himself, which was perhaps the quality which had attracted the independent and self-sufficient woman in the first place. She had found, early on, how small concessions usually satisfied him. So this first semi-serious argument of their relationship had ended in a compromise between Tia’s view that having their own child might be old-fashioned but made a lot of sense, and Romily’s insistence that if they could have the best, why not make use of modern technology? The compromise had been Tia’s. She would accompany him to one of the company’s widely advertised promotions.

  She almost laughed aloud at Romily’s pleased response to the agreement and, to add to his pleasure, she even went so far as to promise she would listen with an open mind to GeneShare’s proposal. Her reaction prompted Romily to continue to elaborate in spite of his victory, since he felt he still had some unused arguments.

  He pointed out an hour of their time would cost them nothing, they didn’t have to commit themselves, they were getting a ticket for the lunar shuttle lottery just for listening, and it really wouldn’t hurt to find out more. Tia had continued to smile at these additional supporting reasons and decided not to tell him she would never take the trip even if they won.

  Dessaint, apparently in his early fifties, was wearing a bright metallic wraparound which shimmered in rainbow hues under the bland, indirect, germicidal ultraviolet lighting. His head seemed somehow small for the rest of his body, and the pupils of his eyes were a flamboyant magenta with gold flecks from the corrective plastic implant rings—from Romily’s point of view, a surprising color choice for someone in his position.

  Unlike Romily, Tia was struck by the appearance of the physical surroundings rather than by the features of the room’s occupant. Filling the three-meter-high wall behind the desk was a hologram, vertically divided in two; the left-hand side a full-sized portrait of a handsome dark-haired man, with his name and a list of his characteristics on the right. She was only half listening to Dessaint’s introductory remarks when Romily gave her a discreet nudge.

  “I’m assuming you’re familiar with our literature?” The statement was actually a question, which received an answering nod from Romily and a blank look from Tia.

  Dessaint’s tone indicated a mild annoyance at the woman’s reaction. “Perhaps I should just briefly review what we have to offer. At this moment we have 258,405 potentiates.”

  Tia interrupted. “Potentiates?” For a moment, she thought he had said “potentates.”

  Dessaint’s annoyance became more obvious. “We prefer the term to ‘donors’ or ‘contributors’, since most of our potentiates have been selected posthumously. The current state of cellular extraction allows us to remove the essential DNA from long-deceased individuals, to achieve infinite replication of the material, and to make it available to prospective parents. For example, behind me you have the portrait and description of a very popular Twentieth Century media personality named Rudolph Valentino.”

  Dessaint’s rapid rattling off of the long list of Valentino’s personality characteristics made Romily at first wonder if he had memorized it, but then he became aware a monitor embedded in the salesman’s desk duplicated all the information on the wall behind his back. Old film clips from Valentino’s performances played on the wall, and Romily could feel Tia flinch at the histrionics of the famous screen lover, dressed in the robes of an Arab sheik and sweeping the compliant heroine up into his arms.

  As Dessaint continued to speak, his voice took on an increasingly enthusiastic tone. “We’ve come a long, long way from those early days of embryonic manipulation. It’s hard to believe, I know, but there actually was a time when only ova and sperm could be utilized.”

  The enthusiasm became amusement. “Models and medical students supplied the raw materials, but there were no guarantees concerning the finished product. Now,” he waved a hand across the monitor and the scene shifted to an enormous photo of Albert Einstein, “we can offer our prospective parents the absolute best, with certainty their offspring will match the original…given the proper environment of course.” His rather high-pitched voice slipped into a brief laugh. “Nature and nurture, you know.

  “Einstein is one of our favorites. At present, we have 11,043 young Alberts out there. The oldest is already eight years old.” After a moment’s pause, the hologram morphed into a dark-skinned, grave-looking male. “Of course, we have numerous other scientists and mathematicians. Ramanujan, here.” He waved a hand behind his head in the direction of the figure. “Or Fung Kway Li. Dirac. Von Neumann. Sunimitsu.” A series of faces and figures flashed in rapid succession across the wall.

  “If your tastes run to the arts, we have many composers and musicians. For example…” A greater-than-life-size Beethoven replaced the series of mathematicians. “But, as I said, talent must have the proper environment. Raised without access to musical instruments, I’m afraid we couldn’t expect young Ludwig to produce another Ninth.” A giggle followed the pronouncement. “I suppose he could become a famous whistler…or yodeler.”

  Tia leaned toward her husband and, in a stage whisper, said, “That’s all we need to entertain our neighbors, a yodeler prodigy.”

  Dessaint was too busy rattling off figures to notice her comment, as hologram followed hologram and his enthusiasm blossomed into a full-blown sales pitch, interrupted finally by her question. “Could you give us some estimate of costs?”

  Scarcely missing a beat, Dessaint veered off into financial details. “Because of our volume, we’ve been able to reduce the total price to sixty-thousand credits.” He quickly added, “Which includes everything, of course—prenatal care, a one-month postnatal unlimited guarantee, a full year limited warranty which you can extend to three years for a nominal sum. Of course we do have add-ons—options if you will. Take a look at this menu.”

  The screen filled with offerings and prices. Dessaint picked up again immediately. “Some women prefer to supply their own ovum to receive the DNA replacement, but for a nominal additional amount we can provide such a component. And if you wish to have a surrogate bear the child, we will be happy to make an arrangement of that nature as well. No problem. Yes, we have many extras.”

  Tia looked over at Romily. She had barely been considering the screen, and her voice reflected her concern. “Sixty-thousand credits! But that would force Romily to work way beyond his forty-five-year retirement age.”

  Dessaint held up one hand while waving the other over his monitor. “I see both of you have excellent employment records. There would be no problem at all in extending very easy terms. We can work directly with your employers and have the amounts levied on a monthly basis—very easy terms, let me assure you. And we give you a fifteen percent discount on your second child.”

  Tia shook her head and turned again to whisper something to Romily. As though inspired by her resistance, Dessaint began to flash holograms and statistics at blurring speed on the screen, accompanying them with a running commentary. “As I said, we have an extremely diverse selection of potentiates available to choose from. Entrepreneurs? A wide selection from the past, such as John D. Rockefeller, Bill Gates, Martha Stewart—as well as from some generous current potentiates such as Marciel or Takata.

  “And, of course, many statespersons—historical figures such as presidents of the former United States…Abraham Lincoln, for example. We of course would make the necessary genetic alterations to prevent a recurrence of Marfan’s Syndrome. Or John F. Kennedy, or Sybil Jackson. In fact, we have in stock virtually all of the American presidents and most of the major world leaders from the days
prior to the Federation.

  “Perhaps you would prefer other political figures. We’re currently working with the authorities in Paris for a genetic sample from Napoleon Bonaparte.”

  The tone of Tia’s next remark made Romily cringe, though Dessaint seemed oblivious to it. “You don’t by any chance happen to have genetic material from Adolf Hitler, do you?”

  “Unfortunately, not. The reports of his complete cremation were long ago confirmed. But we do have Herman Goering’s DNA.” A hologram of the late Nazi chief lit up the wall. “And, of course, we would correct for obesity genes if requested—no additional charge.” Hesitating a moment, he glanced down at his monitor and said a few words in its direction. “In fact…I think…yes, we already have him in two versions, the original with the obesity gene—for parents who may be overweight themselves and prefer offspring with the same characteristic—and a new and improved version with the necessary correction.

  “Also, you may be interested to know we recently located Attila’s tomb. While the DNA may have undergone considerable degeneration, we should still be able to reconstruct the original structure—or very close to it. Our laboratories are working full time on eliminating the genetic precursors of aggression without interfering with the unquestioned strategic talents of this potentiate.”

  Romily closed his eyes at Tia’s next remark, “What are you going to call him, Attila the Hunnybun?

  Dessaint actually glowed at her words. “Our marketing department would definitely consider such a suggestion.” Then his face darkened. “Unfortunately, our research and development division still has problems with resurrecting all of the behavioral genes in older material. You must realize, I’m sure, the highly complex genetic structures involved in such attributes…though we’ve done wonders with many of the ancient specimens—Genghis Khan, for example.”

  It was Tia’s turn to close her eyes—a reaction which finally had an impact on Dessaint, immediately triggering a different emphasis. “We also have potentiates from the other end of the moral spectrum. The Vatican is in somewhat straightened circumstances these days, as you undoubtedly know, so we were able to negotiate for several former popes. John XXIII is in some demand. On the other hand, there has been little call for Mother Theresa, but we are planning to offer a special on her, with an accompanying ad campaign.”

  At Tia’s whispered insistence to Romily, the couple finally managed to extricate themselves while Dessaint, even as they were leaving, protested that the offer—as he had described it—was good only if they signed up during the current session, the unconditional guarantee could be extended to two months, a voucher good for a year of pre-schooling at one of the district’s most exclusive educational institutions would be included, the discount on the second child could be as much as twenty percent depending, of course, upon their willingness to allow the use of their names as satisfied parents in an ongoing media presentation,….

  YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT

  Jeannine had been looking forward to lunch all through her dull eleven o’clock sociology class. There hadn’t been anything to think of besides food–certainly not societal categorization, or culture lag, or any of the other meaningless concepts droned out by a boring prof.

  At the moment, even cafeteria food looked good. The hamburgers were just being made, the lettuce was fresh, the tomatoes a rich red. She ordered a burger with a side order of fries, and she couldn’t resist the corn—her favorite food—even though it was canned. She picked up a plastic bowl of the vegetable, changed her mind about a malt and settled for a glass of milk. The ice cream was hard-frozen, and the dish of it she selected would be at a nice custardy stage by the time she got to it.

  The cafeteria was still half-empty, but Jeannine sought out a table in the corner, hoping to relish her lunch in lone enjoyment. It was not to be. Horror of horrors, Vanessa Tobias had spotted her and was bee-lining in her direction with the inevitable brown bag in one hand and a briefcase in the other.

  “Hi! Mind if I keep you company?” The noncommittal response ignored, Vanessa plopped into a chair opposite Jeannine. “You know, most people don’t realize how many calories there are in bread. No one should eat it without at least toasting it first. Toasting gets rid of a lot of those unnecessary calories.” As she spoke she fished a glass jar containing a greenish looking soup from the bag she’d set on the table.

  “And I can’t imagine anyone eating beef,” she went on. “By now everyone should have heard about mad-cow disease, to say nothing of the fat. Ugh! Did you know even lettuce contains fat? Twelve percent of the calories in a head of lettuce come from fat.”

  She spooned out some of the concoction in the jar before continuing.

  “Tomatoes are in the same family as deadly nightshade. They weren’t called poison apples for nothing. And you’d be amazed how many people have violent allergic reactions to tomatoes. Hives are just the half of it. Potatoes belong to the nightshade family, too. Have you ever seen those green peels on potatoes? Pure poison! Same with sprouted potatoes.

  “Do you want to try some of my smoothie?” she asked, without pausing for breath “It’s a special blend of buckwheat groats, brussel sprouts and spinach—all organic and absolutely no salt.” She held out the jar and Jeannine shook her head, wondering if she should eat fast so she could leave before Vanessa finished, or slow down and hope Vanessa would have to rush off somewhere first.

  “And canned food is the worst possible thing you can eat. Everyone knows lead is used to solder the can, and the claims the manufacturers make for sealing the insides are just plain lies.”

  Jeannine opted for eating fast, moving on to her ice cream.

  Vanessa started to screw the lid back on her jar. “Did you know for every tablespoon of ice cream you eat, you’re consuming two teaspoons of pure fat? Even plain milk is dangerous. Humans are the only animals that drink the milk of another species…and it shows, what with all those babies with colic and sudden death syndrome.”

  Vanessa looked up at the cafeteria clock. “Oh, oh! Gotta go. I’ve got a conference scheduled with the dietitian before our Health and Nutrition class. Nice talking to you. Sorry I can’t stay and gab some more. Maybe tomorrow.”

  Jeannine watched Vanessa leave and carefully scraped the last of the soupy ice cream from the bottom of the plastic bowl. It came to about a half tablespoon. Did a half tablespoon contain a teaspoon and a half of fat? Or was it three quarters of a teaspoon of fat, she wondered. Before she had straightened out the mathematics, a sudden uproar at the entrance of the cafeteria attracted her attention. The description of what happened spread quickly through the campus, but it wasn’t until the following day’s newspaper report before Jeannine learned the full story.

  ***

  The item was splashed across the front page, accompanied by a large photo of a smiling campus security officer holding an irregular object about the size of a football.

  UNIVERSITY STUDENT KILLED BY FALLING METEORITE

  While crossing the campus yesterday, Vanessa Tobias, a student at the University, was struck and killed by a meteorite.

  According to Astrophysics Professor Gerald Cutbank, the only other recorded death by meteorite was of a stray dog in Cairo, Egypt on November 5, 1913. The rarity of the event and the unusual nature of the “stony-iron” meteorite, as termed by the professor, have made it an object of considerable value.

  The nearest of kin, May Lou Washring, a cousin of the deceased, has claimed ownership of the meteorite. Her attorney states the meteorite was not previously in the possession of anyone but the deceased and, since Tobias died intestate, inheritance laws require that ownership pass to his client.

  The state has filed a counter claim, based on the university campus being state property. A spokesman for the governor indicated state ownership was clearly established by the fact the meteorite landed there.

  Since it has been learned Tobias was one-thirty-second Sioux, the Ogalala tribal council is meeting this evening to determine
what steps the tribe will take to gain possession of the rock which killed one of its members.

  Both Russia and Canada have stated the meteorite entered the earth’s atmosphere over their territory and claim the right of first passage should be the main determinant of ownership. The Canadian prime minister says there are no immediate plans to press Canadian claims. The Russian ambassador to the U.S. was unavailable for comment.

  Meantime, at an emergency meeting of the UN General Assembly, the representative of Bhutan moved that the meteorite be turned over to the United Nations. The vote on the motion was almost unanimously in favor, with the U.S., Canada and Russia voting against. China and Guinea-Bissau abstained.

  Services for the deceased will be held Friday morning at 9 a.m. at the Chapel of the Disciples of Divine Providence. Washring has asked that flowers be omitted and contributions of canned goods to the local food bank be made instead.

  YOU CAN’T STOP PROGRESS

  Doris Thatcher looked across the table at her sister and wondered if Lenny felt the same way she did about the attorney they’d hired. Big city lawyer though she might be, Ginya Delaney certainly didn’t look the part. Barely five feet, with a little-girl fatness to her cheeks and a cheery expression. Oh well, Doris decided; since she’d hired her she might just as well make the best of it.

  Ginya was at least acting businesslike. “Start at the beginning,” she said, as she set her combination laptop-recorder on the table.

  The beginning went back a long ways, Doris decided, as she pondered the twenty years which had turned the organic chicken farm into a thriving business. Hard work for all those years had produced an enterprise where she couldn’t meet the demand for her range-raised pullets, or the freshly laid fertile eggs her large flock produced. She thought about the long hours candling those eggs and shoveling chicken manure, about fighting an outbreak of Newcastle disease which had almost wiped out her flock, about the problems she’d had finding reliable employees, about her brother-in-law’s death a year ago which had brought her kid sister, with her bookkeeping background, to work for her.