by Sharon Webb
…MOUAT-GARI INCORPORATES BIRTH-CONTROL. SPECIAL INHIBITING MEDICATIONS MUST BE TAKEN TO OFFSET THE INFERTILITY THE PROCESS CONFERS…
He found what he was looking for:
…WITH THE EXCEPTION OF CERTAIN OF THE GREAT APES, THE MOUAT-GARI HAS NO EFFECT ON LOWER ANIMALS…
He scratched the dog's ears. Committee moaned in pleasure. Letting the flexi-sheets drop to the floor, he gathered the dog to him, running his fingers through the rough coat. He thought of how fleeting some things were. He thought of his father. He sat there for a few moments petting his dog, staring at the flexi-sheets, but not seeing them. Finally he focused oh the one that lay on top:
COPENHAGEN-WITHIN HOURS AFTER THE NEWS OF THE MOUAT-GARI PROCESS DISSEMINATION, A PILOT AIMED HIS SMALL TWO-SEATER AIRCRAFT BEARING A WARHEAD OF EXPLOSIVES INTO THE MIDST OF A CHILDREN'S CONCERT HERE.
THERE WERE TWO HUNDRED EIGHT VICTIMS OF THE RESULTING EXPLOSION AND FIRE. SEVENTY-EIGHT DIED, THE PILOT AMONG THEM.
HE LEFT A RECORDED MESSAGE: "HELL'S DEMONS HOLD THEM BY THE PROCESS. ONLY DEATH CAN GIVE THEM BACK TO GOD."
Kurt tried to practice, but the piano seemed hateful to him just then. He stared at the keys and at his broad, tanned fingers above them. He had to get his practicing done before his parents got home. His father would need to sleep then.
He tried again, but he couldn't concentrate on the Bartok Suite. The notes evaded his fingers. It was a relief when the door opened; it was a tightening of his gut too. Not yet. He didn't want to see his father yet.
But it was his older brother Eric, wearing his track suit and muddy shoes, tossing his card, his towel, his lunch sack on the table, spreading an air of cheerful disarray. A smile bent his lips and creased the corners of his gray eyes when he saw Kurt. "Hello, old timer."
A half-smile crept over Kurt's face in response. "You too. Old timer."
"Then you've heard."
He nodded, then looked away. "Does Dad know?"
Concern crossed the clear eyes. "I'm sure he does-by now." He plopped down on the piano bench next to Kurt and swung an arm over his hunched shoulders. "He’ll be happy for us. I know he will."
"We're going to lose him." He felt the arm give him a rough squeeze. He tried to smile. "Nothing's the same is it? We're going to lose all of them-Mom, Grandma-all of them after a while."
"We always knew that, didn't we?"
He thought about it. "I guess so." But there wasn't much conviction in his voice.
"And we've got each other. We'll always have each other." Eric gave him a playful shove. "Now move over. You've hogged the piano long enough. You're not the only virtuoso, you know."
Kurt grinned, got up, and settled on the couch as Eric began to play a Chopin etude. As he listened, his critical ear asserted itself as it always did. Eric's technique was sloppy. He was fairly musical, but not enough-not enough to charm an audience into overlooking his deficiencies. Kurt watched Eric's long fingers sweep over the keys, then he looked at his own. He was better. He had more talent, more music in him.
His mother knew it too, from the time he'd been old enough to sit at the piano, and later when he'd blown the first tentative notes into an oboe. She'd never said so; she didn't have to. He could see it in the way her dark eyes shone when he played and in the way she pushed him, giving him harder and harder music to play, until the day she said she'd taught him all she could and sent him to Dr. Rouk at the university.
A discord clanged on Kurt's ear, but Eric played on, ignoring the mistake. Kurt's fingers moved on his lap undoing the error, racing on to bring the piece up to tempo. He wondered what it would be like to change places with Eric, see with his eyes, hear with his ears. It didn't seem possible that Eric's ears functioned the same as his. He considered the thought. He wouldn't want to change with him-really. And yet, if he could have just some of the things Eric had: the free and easy way; the quick sense of humor that spilled over to cheer other people when they were down; the way he had with girls. Girls. How did Eric always know what to say to them? The right words were so hard to find. Only later when he was alone would things come to him-all the funny witty things he should have said. Everybody thought he was aloof. Well, it was better to be that way than stupid, wasn't it? It was better to keep his mouth shut than to let a bunch of dumb words fall out. But maybe when he got to be sixteen, like Eric, he'd be more like him. He stared at his brother for a moment and then sighed. He wouldn't want to bet on it.
Committee's ears perked, sending one to stand erect in splendid asymmetry. He gave a welcome bark and ran to the door. Carmen Kraus pushed it open, holding it for her husband.
Eric stopped playing and swiveled on the piano bench to look toward the door.
Richard Kraus. He moved like a puppet with stiff wire for strings. He leaned on his wife for support. With breath that came fast with exertion, he spoke. His voice barely carried to Kurt.
What had he said? "What, Dad?"
"Hot. It's hot." The words were an exhaled sigh. He slumped into a chair and looked up at his wife, "Honey…"
"I'll get it." She moved toward the bedroom and in a moment was back, bringing the red medeject kit to him. He pressed the lever and a drinking tube popped up. He sucked deeply. He sat then, not speaking, not moving.
Kurt twisted uneasily. It seemed to him that the silence was heavy. Like sound waves too low to hear, slapping against his face with a slow and steady rhythm. "Did-Did you hear the news, Dad?" he said against the silent breakers.
His father's lips rose in a part-smile, quavered, fell. "I heard." He sucked again from the drinking tube, rose, and walked slowly into the bedroom.
Carmen Kraus's dark eyes looked stricken. "He's tired. So much pain…" She smiled brightly at Eric, at Kurt. "It's wonderful news. He's just tired." She fled to the bedroom to see after her husband.
That evening while Richard Kraus kept to his room, the boys and their mother ate a light supper and stared into the little holo set on the table. The news was predictably all about the Mouat-Gari process.
There were other news stories too-the stock market crisis and the homicides. There had been eleven murders in Tampa since midnight. All of the victims were less than eighteen years old.
Chapter 2
Kitty Tarantino stared at her naked body in the mirror. Eight months. Eight months gone, and where's the rent coming from?
Her belly rippled with the quick thrust of a tiny foot. She ran her fingers over the crisscrossed stretch marks. They look like tire tracks, she thought. Tire tracks on a hill. Like a transport had run over her tummy. A transport carrying a load of watermelons. "Whoops! Pardon me, lady, but you got one of my melons in there."
She cupped her hands under her belly and lifted gently. "Are you ripe yet, kid?" She was answered by another quick kick from within.
She thrust her face close to the mirror. It was dark with what seemed to be an uneven tan. The woman at the clinic had called it the mask of preg
nancy. She aimed an index finger from the hip towards her reflection. "Stick 'em up." The finger waggled, "The masked lady and the kid here are cutting you out, see? So you gotta die. But you gotta die later, 'cause if I don't shower and get to work, they're going to pink me."
Walking flat-footed, Kitty went into the bathroom and turned on the tap. The metered spray trickled out in a rusty stream. "Damn. Don't I pay enough rent to get wet in the shower?" With the economy of long practice, she lathered her hair and let it rinse while she washed her body. Do it the other way and get charged twice when the meter cut off.
She stepped out, wrapped a towel around her head, and dripped onto the mat. It was cooler that way. She plopped down onto the toilet seat and toweled her hair. Her legs were getting hairy as a goat's, but who could reach over all that baby to shave? The hair was dark and thick against her olive skin. "Really sexy," she muttered. "But who's looking?"
The answer was, concisely, nobody. Nobody since Jeep walked out. Nobody unless you counted the creep orderly at work. The one with the greasy lips and the eyes that looked soft and fat like peeled grapes. Peeled Grapes, that's what she called him. P.G., when she wanted a laugh with the other aides in the lounge when the floor got quiet.
She finished drying and pulled on a pair of limp maternity panties. The front panel snugged over her belly. She patted it. "It's you and me, kid." Nobody else gave a flipping shit. But the kid would. She was going to be the sun and the moon to that baby. And later on they'd be buddies. Hell, why not? There would be less than nineteen years difference in their ages.
She ran her fingers through her damp hair and brushed it into a short curly flip. No reason why they couldn't be buddies. They'd be close. Go to the movies. Maybe even double date. More like sisters.
Her own mother had been thirty-eight when she was born. Living with her was like riding a roller coaster through a nettle patch. One big scream. For God's sake, Mama. Please take your medicine. It was easy to control manic-depressive psychosis. Only one catch. You had to take a pill.
Kitty pulled on her uniform, gave a final pat to her hair, and headed out the door. With the sun glinting on her hair and with her face bare of makeup, she looked closer to sixteen than nineteen.
She heard the train coming. "Hold on, kid. We're going to be late." She began to run toward the TampaTran station. She ran awkwardly, one hand clamped to her swaying belly. With a little luck she'd be able to clock in on time.
It had never seriously occurred to her that she might have a boy. It was going to be a cute, pink-ruffled girl, she was sure. Maybe blonde like Jeep, with blue eyes. More likely dark like the Tarantino side. It had not seriously occurred to her that her baby would be immortal. Sure, she had heard about all that last night on the late news. But it was an abstraction. A fantasy. Oh and ah over it for a while and then set it aside like she had her graduation trip to Disney World. Of course, she never graduated. But so what if she'd dropped out of school in October. She'd paid her money. Let them try to keep her out when she'd paid. So she took the weekend off from work and showed up, big belly and all for the trip. And if old lady Hamilton didn't like it, she could suck.
She'd had a romp, she told herself. Until she saw the guy that looked like Jeep. Big and blond with a slow smile and a sexy little butt. After that it seemed she saw him everywhere- eating a hamburger, driving a shuttle, sucking on an OJ. Well, who needed him? After all, she had the kid. She was going to call her Margot Lynne after the singer.
The train swung in a slow arc. The bay glistened beneath her. Nearly there. The multilithic structures of Tampa General Hospital loomed ahead on Davis Island. She swung off at the stop, took a shortcut across the grass and reached the clock in time to avoid being docked a half-hour's pay.
The elevator took her to Med-Surg West. She had worked there since she started. Not that she minded. She'd have been bored rigid if she had the same types of patients all the time. There was variety on Med-Surg. And you had to be smart too. No dumbing around.
When she reached the nurses' station, she saw a stiff blonde figure. Marge Rideout was in charge today and wasn't that wonderful? Superlative. If she had a choice she'd rather have Attila the Hun. Thank God Rideout worked only part-time. Who could stand a week's worth of her?
Rideout was listening to a report from the station computer center. She hit the pause button and said, "You're late, Tarantino."
"Slow elevator, I guess. The comp-clock says I'm on time." And who the hell do you think you are? she added to herself.
In addition to Rideout, another RN, Connie Davis, an LPN float, and Kitty's best friend Janice Mills made up the second shift. Oh yes, and don't forget the orderly, Peeled Grapes. There he came-oozing out of the lounge. What a slime. He never said much, but what he did say was obnoxious.
P.G. sidled up to the console next to her. Behind Rideout's back he reached out and rubbed Kitty's belly. She felt her skin crawl. "Hands off," she snapped and moved away.
The ward secretary answered a ring on her computer station. In a moment she said to Marge, "We're getting an admission. A pediatric case. Four years old."
"A four-year-old! On Med-Surg?"
"Pedie's full," answered the secretary. "They've had a run on trauma cases today."
Marge Rideout muttered to herself and then hit the key for a report on the child.
…ANTHONY HERRERA, 4 YO BLACK MALE. ADMITTING DX OF RUPTURED SPLEEN POST ATTACK BY STEPFATHER. SPLENECTOMY PER DR. GONSALVES. CONDITION STABLE. ADMITTING ORDERS…
Four years old and daddy ruptures his spleen. Kitty's arm curved protectively over her abdomen. No father at all was better than that. Poor little guy.
Anthony Herrera arrived via stretcher from the recovery room a few minutes later. He was only half awake. His eyes were so big that they seemed to fill most of his face. Kitty reached out and took his hand. "Hi there, Anthony."
He looked at her with fear in those big eyes.
Maybe they called him Tony. "Hi, Tony. I'm Kitty. Nobody's going to hurt you." She ran her fingers through his soft black hair. The boy seemed to relax a little.
Outside in the hall, Tony's mother stood first on one foot, then the other. She clutched the strap of her handbag, loosened it, clutched it again. Her eyes were as big as her son's.
As soon as Rideout was through checking the little boy, Kitty let his mother into the room. She didn't seem to want to talk, but just stood there squeezing his hand so tightly that Tony whimpered and tried to pull it away.
"You can't stay now," said Kitty, "but you can come back later. Visiting hours start at seven."
The woman shook her head.
"Look. I know you don't want to leave, but the charge nurse is really strict about it. We'll take good care of him. I promise."
Doubtful, the woman looked at Tony, then back at Kitty. Finally, she seemed convinced. "Seven?"
"You can come
back at seven. He'll be fine."
She checked on him several times after that. Then she went to supper. In the cafeteria, she talked with an aide from Emergency. "You wouldn't believe how rushed we've been. Strip one stretcher and as quick as you can get a sheet on it, it's filled again. Mostly kids."
"What's going on?"
"They're saying it's because of the immortality thing. That Moo-ah Gary process or whatever it is. There's a bunch of warps out there attacking kids."
"Attacking?"
The Emergency aide nodded over her hamburger. "It's enough to make you sick. One little girl came in DOA. Only seven years old."
Kitty's eyes widened. "Why? Why are they doing it?"
"Crazy, I guess. Who knows? But between the attacks and the drunks, it's going to be quite a night."
Then that explains why Tony's stepfather hit him, thought Kitty. But then, uneasily, she realized that it didn't really explain anything at all.
* * *
There were a lot of visitors that night, but otherwise things were quiet on Med-Surg West. The patients were all listening to the news. Nothing else seemed to be going on in the world but the Mouat-Gari Process.
While the visitors fanned down the hall, Kitty took the opportunity to slip into the nurses' lounge across from the elevator and pour herself a cup of coffee. Every two minutes or so, the elevator doors opened and disgorged another group of visitors. One of them was Tony's mother. Kitty waved at her, but she was too distracted to notice. She clutched her bag, turned, and headed down the hall toward his room.
Kitty was wondering if she could get away with a second cup of coffee when she heard the scream. It began as a high keening cry that rose in pitch and ended in a wail that made the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. The coffee sloshed from the overturned cup as Kitty ran down the hall toward Tony's room.