by Victor Koman
Solomon's Knife
Victor Koman
Solomon's Knife
by Victor Koman
Also by Victor Koman
from PULPLESS.
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The Jehovah Contract
Kings of the High Frontier Captain Anger Adventure #1: The Microbotic Menace Death's Dimensions (forthcoming)
Millennium: Weeds
Spaceways #13: Jonuta Rising! (with Andrew J. Offutt writing as "John Cleve")(1983) Spaceways #17: The Carnadyne Horde (with Andrew J. Offutt writing as "John Cleve")(1984) a novel
by
Victor Koman
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Copyright © 1989, 1999 by Victor Koman
All rights reserved. Published by arrangement with
the author. Printed in the United States of America.
The rights to all previously published materials
by {authour] are owned by the author, and are
claimed both under existing copyright laws and
natural logorights. All other materials taken from
published sources without specific permission are
either in the public domain or are quoted and/or
excerpted under the Fair Use Doctrine. Except for
attributed quotations embedded in critical articles
or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including pho-tocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. pletely imaginary or used fictitiously. While the medical procedure described herein is not known to have been performed, it lurks on the borderland of technical feasibility. Any resemblance to actual persons-living, dead, or in limbo-or to actual events, locales, secret experiments, or curiously worded contracts is purely coincidental. -V.K. First edition published April, 1989 by Franklin Watts
First Pulpless.ComTM, Inc. Edition July, 1999.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 99-61055
Trade Paperback ISBN: 1-58445-072-X
Acrobat/PDF Digital Edition ISBN: 1-58445-073-8
HTML Digital Edition ISBN: 1-58445-074-6
Book designed by CaliPer, Inc.
Cover Design & Illustration by Victor Koman
© 1999 by Victor Koman
Author's Acknowledgments
Writers often refer to their novels as their "babies," with good reason. The labor through which they go to give birth to such cre-ations can often be as traumatic, physically and mentally, as the birth of a human being. Worse, the labor can last for years. The reward, though, is a lovely offspring that has the potential to live beyond its creator and touch other lives in myriad ways.
And, as with babies, the final, full-grown product is the result of many individual influences that combine to make the whole. A writer's experiences, research, and input from friends are the ge-netic material of the work. What follows is a DNA map of Solomon's Knife. "
The initial germ of the story came from that veritable fount of ideas, Samuel Edward Konkin III, whose sarcastic offhand com-ment sparked a helix of thoughts in me.
Wendy McElroy, erstwhile editrix of The Voluntaryist, wrote a passionate, logical defense of abortion that inspired me to counter-attack, with equal fervor, the flaws I perceived in her arguments. J. Neil Schulman encouraged me to write a non-fiction article about a procedure that does not exist, which ultimately found no market. Then he convinced me that a fictional treatment offered more latitude in examining the potential of such an innovation. His constant enthusiasm and support brought this work to fruition. Fur-thermore, his heroic efforts to create a new form of literature for the third millennium-the Paperless Book-has ensured that you can read this book whenever you want in the edition over which the author has had total control. Long live Pulpless.Com!
Dr. John E. Buster, pioneer in non-surgical ovum transfer, gra-ciously and patiently answered hours of questions from an obvi-ously ardent fan. The work he quietly, diligently, performs is ca-pable of changing the face of the world in ways none of us can fully imagine.
Virginia Jacobs provided me with valuable information about blood and marrow; she also coined the term transoption as a mar-velous alternative to my inferior construct transortion. Regina Cobb patiently explained how lawyers work and think, helping me immensely with the courtroom scenes.
Richard Kyle, eponymous proprietor of the best bookstore in the world-bar none-has helped me out of a bind more than a few times, providing tactical and strategic support whenever necessary. Joel Gotler, who agented this with book with Neil's assistance, has believed in me for the past a couple of decades, aiding me when he could and always maintaining a personal interest when circumstances intervened. He helped keep this work afloat when it was merely a "project"-the artistic equivalent of a dislodged ovum.
Ronni Paer, Denise DeGarmo, Ricka Fisher, and Carol Drexler demonstrated an early interest in the book and gave me a glimpse of the more obscure reactions to transoption that might arise. Robert A. Heinlein and Ray Bradbury inspired me to write, and then encouraged me onward. They both have a million sons and daughters who love them dearly.
Charles Platt, Ed Breslin, and Kent Oswald of Franklin Watts all contributed their energy and their company's money to ensure that this book was published in hardback. The previously mentioned Sam and Neil, as well as Kent Hastings and super-networker Brad Linaweaver, work wicked hard in the digital world to make sure today.
Robert Meyer Burnett-a rising star in film-making-keeps me inspired with his interest in my work and his kind words of encour-agement. Thanks!
My daughter, Vanessa, understood quickly-despite her age-that there was some causal connection between Daddy's time at the com-puter and his ability to purchase food, clothing, and surprises. Her recognition of the Koman variant of the Prime Directive is deeply appreciated. And most of all, my wife-to whom this book is lovingly dedi-cated-served as birth partner in this three-year gestation, endur-ing 5 A.M. rolls out of bed, stacks of paper atop every horizontal surface in the house, my discovery of caffeine after four decades of abstinence, and my penchant for gleefully describing imaginary medical procedures in the most lurid terms possible. Veronica did more than persevere, though, providing days and nights of insight, criticism, inspiration, proofreading, encouragement, and love. Dedicated to my wife, lover,
friend, and companion,
Veronica,
who through faith, love,
labor, and courage, served as midwife to this work.
Table of Contents CHAPTER PAGE
1 ........................................................................................ 11
2 ........................................................................................ 17
3 ........................................................................................ 25
4 ........................................................................................ 33
5 ........................................................................................ 47
6 ........................................................................................ 55
7 ..........................................................................
.............. 67
8 ........................................................................................ 79
9 ...................................................................................... 107
10...................................................................................... 123
11...................................................................................... 137
12...................................................................................... 149
13...................................................................................... 157
14...................................................................................... 165
15...................................................................................... 185
16...................................................................................... 211
17...................................................................................... 227
18...................................................................................... 239
19...................................................................................... 243
20...................................................................................... 261
21...................................................................................... 265
22...................................................................................... 277 Epilogue
.............................................................................. 285 A Novel of Ideas That's a Page-Turner by Alan W. Bock ................................................... 299 Medical Novels: Double Dose of Fear by Brad Linaweaver ............................................ 303 About the Author
................................................................ 305
I
A cool breeze blew from the ocean over the hills of Palos Verdes, carrying the scent of salt and clean air with it. Valerie Dalton took a deep breath, held it, let it out. It smelled like the winds that caressed the Rocky Mountains in winter. Fresh and pure. It reminded her of home.
She'd lived in the Los Angeles area for ten years since leav-ing home to attend UCLA. This was home now, not Colorado. This was where she had chosen to come. This is where she chose to stay. The man she chose to stay with slumbered in bed, his dark hair tousled, face buried in the pillows. She watched him for a moment. It gave her a certain warm pleasure to know that by rising first to shower, she could allow him a few moments more to sleep. A moment or two more to recover from their late evening of lovemaking.
A lawyer of Ron Czernek's ambition needed all the rest he could get.
Valerie stepped quietly into the bathroom. First stop was the mirror atop the vanity for a survey of the night's damage. She gazed at the flesh around her blue-gray eyes. At twenty-eight, she feared the onslaught of crinkles with an apprehension usually reserved for toxic pollution or nuclear war. Safe for now, she thought, reaching for her hairbrush. She plucked a few blond strands from the bristles, laid them in a tissue, and balled it up. A light toss sent the ball sailing into the wastebasket. Two points. She smiled at the thought of how she'd picked up the phrase from Ron. That, and the line about punting. Or was it bunting?
Long nails clacking against the shower tiles, she twisted the hot water on full, waiting outside for the chill to abate. As she slipped out of her peach silk teddy, her thoughts turned to the problems she'd face at work. She wanted to have Shirley fired. It wouldn't look good, though, for a new office manager to flex her recently acquired authority that quickly. Perhaps a dis-cussion with her about her absenteeism. And the condition of her desk.
That's it, she thought as she stepped into the hot, tingling spray. A quiet, private talk. She languished for a precious moment in the swirling warmth of the shower. It became a waterfall off a mountain hot spring. She was successful, comfortable, and in love with a gentle, considerate man. The future lay before her, exciting and sweet. With a smile and closed eyes, she thrust her head into the cascade. Her long golden hair carried the waterfall down her back.
Valerie Dalton was happy. As happy as she'd ever been.
Soaped, shampooed, conditioned, and rinsed, she stepped a few moments later from the shower. The bath sheet felt warm from basking under the heat lamps. She wrapped her hair in a smaller towel, twisting it up and over. Queena Sheba, she thought, looking in the soaped portion of an otherwise fogged mirror. Her mother had always called her that whenever dry-ing her. It was years before she realized that Queena was not a first name.
Valerie sat at her vanity. A quick check for water damage to her nails came before anything else. They'd survived.
She had everything timed. Ten minutes for the shower, ten for the hair, twenty-five for dressing and makeup. That left fifteen minutes for emergencies before she gave Ron a last kiss and squeeze. Then he hit the shower, and she hit the road.
When she finished blow-drying her hair to full-bodied, soft-waved completion, she moved on to makeup. Rummaging for that new bottle of foundation she'd bought the other day, she uncovered her Hallmark date book.
Valerie felt a childish glow whenever she opened it. Her mother had always used one and had instilled the tradition in little Val from day one. As long as she could remember, she picked up the giveaway every year while buying Christmas cards. As a child, it had been filled by her mother with impor-tant dates. Later, she used it to keep track of friends' birth-days. When she turned eleven, the little book took on a new meaning.
"Now that you're a woman," her mother said, "it's impor-tant that you keep track of your friend." She showed Valerie how to put an inconspicuous dot next to the date of her period.
"See?" she said, marking the page on Valerie's date book with a tiny black spot. "No one will know what it means ex-cept you."
"And you," Valerie added with a child's seriousness.
"It'll be our secret."
When Valerie turned fourteen, she very daringly chose to use a red pen to make the dots. And she made them just a little bit larger.
Every year at Christmastime she still picked up the date book at whatever card shop she visited. And even though she used her Day-Timer for all other matters of import, she still took a red pen to the page of the date book. Every month. Every...
Curious, she opened the book to the page for February. Even though it was the first of March, no spot of red glowed from the previous month's white-and-blue surface. She flipped back to January. And stared in quiet shock.
She tried to remember everything that had happened in the last month. Her promotion had so occupied her time that she hadn't given any thought to much outside of her work. If any-thing, the freedom from aches and cramps had enabled her to handle the transition with ease. She gazed at January's mark. The third. She counted. Eight weeks. Over eight. It can't be. She begged herself to remember something. The week or two before Valentine's Day. Spotting, maybe.
Nothing. Nothing at all.
She opened a drawer to check her tampons. The box was nearly full. When did she buy it?
Looking up in the mirror, Valerie saw a different woman staring back. She missed work that day."
Dr. Evelyn Fletcher's eyes opened three minutes before her alarm went off. Thoughts immediately began their daily churn. Concerns about luteinizing hormones, estradiol, and catheters intertwined with musings over synchronization, scheduling, and budgets.
She rolled naked out of the narrow single bed and, after a perfunctory glance at herself in the bathroom mirror, climbed into the frigid bathtub and turned on the water.
The first blast brought a shudder of cold, followed by a gradual warming. The tub was an antique ball-and-claw de-sign, devoid of curtains and open to the small bathroom. Here, amidst brass and porcelain fixtures, mauve and lavender tiles, grey-and-black curtains, she began and ended her working days. The hot water soothed her. The long soak gave her time to t
hink.
Thinking time was what Evelyn cherished most. While soak-ing in the steaming tub, she paid no mind to her body. It mat-tered little to her that forty-seven years of life steadily left their tracks on her. The face that lined a bit more with every frown of deep concentration, the hair that turned relentlessly from black to frost, the flesh that would someday slowly surrender to the pull of gravity-these were invisible to her.
The unceasing thoughts continued to buzz within her. In-side, she was eternally young, unaging in her enthusiasm.
After half an hour spent in meditation, the water had be-come chilly. In that time, Evelyn had reviewed her schedule for the day and given further thought to the ramifications of her research. She turned on the tap to fill a stoneware pitcher with tepid water. A loud, sloshing waterfall substituted for the tub's nonexistent shower. After a few jugs worth of rinsing, she toweled dry and dressed for the day in her usual clothes.
She favored dark clothing. She'd once commented to a col-league that she preferred primary colors such as white and black. Or blends-grey, off-white, and off-black.
Today she wore black. Only a small triangular wedge showed through at the apex of her lab coat's lapels. The coat-as clean and white as modern laundering could offer-was one of seven that she owned. One for each workday, plus a spare for emer-gency calls.
With a grunt, Dr. Fletcher hefted a heavy briefcase, filled to its tattered limits with papers, charts, abstracts, and research. Her right hand clutched her black instrument bag. She had never owned a purse on the theory that carrying feminine items would only weigh her down.
As she did every workday, she locked her apartment door's triple set of deadbolts, dropped the oversized ring of keys into her lab coat pocket, toted her burden down to a faded blue Saab that was only half her age, and threw the bags into the back seat. They landed with satisfying squeaks on the torn upholstery.
She hesitated before climbing into the driver's seat. Gazing out of the carport, she saw that the sun had come up over feathery white cirrus clouds. A breeze from the sea blew smog inland from Torrance, bringing with it a fresh smell. Dew from the night before misted on shake roofs, cool night air surrendering to morning's warmth. It would be a good day.