Incubation

by Laura Disilverio

  I think. “I don’t know. I still don’t know who my parents are—I don’t know who I’m supposed to be.”

  “Oh, Everly.” He snorts gently. “You don’t need to know who your parents are to know who you are.” He presses a hand over my heart. “Who you are comes from in here. You are already exactly who you are meant to be: strong, passionate, courageous, smart.”

  I can’t do anything but stare up at him, not recognizing myself in his word picture. His hand is heavy above my left breast, and I can feel the weight of it all the way down to my groin. He looks into my eyes, his gold eyes half-searching, half-determined.

  His fingertips graze my clavicle, and then his hand is behind my neck, cupping my head. I tilt my face up and lean forward to meet him. His mouth comes down hard on mine and his body presses me back against the ACV. His fingers thread through my hair and hold my head still. My mouth opens under his and his tongue against mine sends a shudder through me. I want more.

  My blood thrums, liquid lava, and I need to feel his skin. My hand works its way under his jumpsuit and he gasps as my palm slides across his bare chest, heat on heat. Our kiss deepens, lips, tongues, teeth grazing, probing, yielding. I’m drugged, mindless, all sparking nerve endings. We’re both breathing heavily when Saben suddenly pulls away and our lips part with a silly little pop.

  I’ve never felt like this. Wyck’s kisses never left me breathless and on fire. I’m confused and a little embarrassed. With obvious effort, Saben steps back so we’re no longer touching. I feel momentarily chilled, bereft.

  “This is as far as I can take you,” he says. “I shouldn’t have—The RESCO is a mile down the road. It’s not too late to back out and come back with me. No one will think badly of you.”

  “I will. Halla needs me.” I want to go with him. I find it hard to tear myself away from the look in his gold eyes. “I—You—See you in a few days.”

  “Wait.” He reaches into an inner pocket and withdraws a folded sheet of paper. “I drew this for you.”

  Wonderingly, I unfold it and find myself looking at an albatross, wings spread, every feather finely detailed and alive with motion, eye gleaming. “How did you know? This is lovely.”

  “After you showed us your feather, I looked it up. I thought you might like this.”

  He seems uncertain and I recognize that his drawing gift has been disdained and vilified for so long that he’s not sure how I’ll react. Part of me knows right then that his ability is as essential as my scientific talents. “It’s amazing. Truly. Thank you. Won’t they take it from me?”

  “If they do, I’ll draw you another.”

  Carefully refolding my albatross, I tuck it inside my bra. Saben presses a quick, hard kiss on my lips and returns to the ACV’s cockpit. He seals the doors but doesn’t leave, just keeps watching me. Somehow, his gaze is giving me strength. I lift my hand in a tiny wave, turn, and start down the road to the RESCO. After a moment, the ACV hums away. I don’t look back.

  Part Three

  Chapter Twenty Three

  The Reproduction Support Community looks innocuous, even peaceful. It’s surrounded by a tall stone wall, gleaming creamy-white under a benevolent sun. Even the jagged shards of glass topping the wall look pretty in the sunlight, glittering green and dark brown and amber. One of the glass scraps, a curvy one, has red lettering that spells out “Coca-Co.” Four buildings, made of the same stone as the wall, are barely visible behind a screen of gnarled magnolia trunks and branches. A flash of blue suggests there’s a small lake. Several women walk in the grounds; they’re not in shackles, at least. There don’t seem to be any gates in the wall and I’m wondering how I’ll get in when an IPF ACV swoops up, probably alerted by the micro drones buzzing around the perimeter. Problem solved.

  I tell the IPF sentries and then several other sets of guards, administrators and doctors my story: I ran away from my Kube, saw the error of my ways, and decided to become a surrogate. I manage a few tears, and leave them with the impression that starvation and fear drove me to the RESCO. I’m searched several times. First, by the sentries before they bring me into the compound, then by more senior guards, and finally by medical people who make me strip and examine every cranny. They miss the tiny pill tucked under my big toenail, however, and I feel mildly triumphant, even though the thoroughness and invasiveness of the search are humiliating.

  I expected a government institution of stainless steel and white, but the RESCO’s interior walls are a soft pink and the examination room has a padded chair upholstered in a floral pattern. I’m sitting in it, wearing a robe, because they took every stitch of my clothing. They left me the drawing, however, after some discussion amongst themselves and a fingertip exam of the surface. I’m curious as to whether the décor is because there is scientific evidence proving that women are more susceptible to successful implantation when they’re relaxed, or because the administrators are trying to keep the surrogates happy in their pink/floral/padded prison. Maybe both. I’m analyzing this to distract myself from my nervousness. It’s not working.

  A woman appears in the doorway. She’s as tall as Saben, better than six feet, and her skin is several shades darker than Halla’s. Heavy-lidded gold eyes observe me. “I’m Dr. Malabar,” she says. “Welcome to the RESCO. We all celebrate your willingness to help grow our great nation’s population. It’s the most critical work a woman can undertake.”

  “It will be my privilege,” I say, keeping my eyes downcast.

  She seems to approve of my meekness and launches into an explanation of the fertilization procedure and the RESCO’s routines. “For tonight,” she says, “you’ll be housed with the non-gravid women. There are only a handful, mostly mothers resting between giving birth and undertaking a new pregnancy. We rejoice that so many are willing to be surrogates multiple times.”

  Hm. I’m skeptical about her definition of “willing.”

  A siren suddenly erupts, its piercing shriek hurting my ears. “What’s that?” The exam room door slides shut and a lock clicks.

  Dr. Malabar frowns. “The nursery alarm. It goes off when someone tries to remove a baby from the nursery. Sometimes, it gets triggered when a carer even gets close to an exit with a tattooed baby. It locks down the complex until security resolves the situation.”

  “Tattooed?” The alarm cuts off, thankfully. A moment later, the door clicks open.

  She nods. “Indeed. Every infant delivered here is immediately imprinted with a special magnetized tattoo to make it impossible to sneak it out of the nursery. The tattoo can only be deactivated by a coded scanner issued to the parents who have been approved to raise the child. They bring it when they come to take the baby home with them.”

  “That’s twink,” I say.

  “Brilliant, indeed, and unfortunately necessary. You don’t know the lengths some people will go to to get a baby.”

  I don’t contradict her.

  “Once you undergo the procedure, you’ll be moved to the dormitory with the other expectant surrogates.”

  “I can’t wait,” I say truthfully. I can’t wait to find Halla, who must be in that second dorm, and get the two of us the hell out of here.

  “Let’s do some tests.”

  For the next ninety minutes, she pokes and prods me, measures every vital function possible, draws blood, and takes a complete medical history. She frowns when I confess that I don’t know who my parents are. “Unusual,” she observes, “but our DNA database will tell us. You’re a little on the thin side, but we’ll make sure your diet contains an extra quota of vitamins and calories to bring your weight up to norms for your height and build. Assuming we don’t get any bad news from the tests, we should be able to arrange your IVF procedure for tomorrow afternoon.”

  They have a DNA database! Of course they do; they’re in the business of mixing and matching ova and spermatozoa for best effect. I wonder where it is and how hard it would be to access. She’s looking at me, expecting a response, and I stutter, “T
h-that’s great. I can’t wait. I really feel this is the right path for me.”

  “Great. I’ll see you tomorrow. Here’s Bronnie to show you to your sleeping quarters.”

  The door opens and a slight, red-headed woman comes in. Her face is a mass of freckles and she’s got a sizable baby bump. Not as big as Halla’s—a month behind, I estimate. She’s wearing a pink tunic over matching draw-string pants and our first stop is to get me an identical outfit. It doesn’t take me long to realize that everyone is color-coded; doctors wear white, technicians wear blue, non-medical staff wear yellow, and surrogates wear pink.

  “Jumpsuits don’t work well when you’re pregnant and have to pee all the time,” Bronnie confides.

  She takes me on a tour that includes a dining facility, a gathering area where pink-clad women are playing games, reading, or talking in groups of twos and threes. It looks deadly dull. A couple of them look up and smile when I approach. Everyone looks happy. Happy and a little vacant. A dark-haired woman looks vaguely familiar. With a start, I recognize Ping from Kube 9. She left three years ago—or was it four?—to volunteer as a surrogate. She was planning for a career as an engineer in the Ministry of Transportation and Infrastructure after she delivered. Her presence here, at least two years after she should have left, gives me the chills. Any lingering doubts I had about Bulrush’s assessment of the RESCO die a shivery death. I keep an eye out, but don’t spot Halla.

  I trail Bronnie upstairs to the dormitory. Again, very like the Kube. The sleeping quarters are as serene as the rest of the RESCO, with pale blue walls and head high dividers separating the beds and affording a little privacy. Frankly, all this designed peacefulness is getting a bit cloying. There are four beds in the room she leads me to, and an attached hyfac with two stalls and two showers. “Lovely,” I say.

  “You won’t be here long,” Bronnie says. “Dr. Malabar mentioned you’d be joining us in the expectant mothers wing tomorrow or the next day.”

  “When is your baby due?”

  “‘Fetus,’ not ‘baby,’” she corrects me. “Six weeks. It’s my third.”

  “Boy or girl?”

  With a frown, Bronnie says, “We never know. They don’t want us to get attached. It’s ‘the fetus.’”

  “You don’t mind giving them up?”

  Bronnie looks unsure. “I’m sad for a few days after the delivery, but then I feel better. It’s the shots; they help.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I want to probe her for more information about the shots, but I sense I’m treading on sensitive territory. Besides, she probably doesn’t know. “I’m starving,” I say instead. “When’s dinner?”

  Halla is seated two tables away from me at dinner. I’m sitting with my dorm mates and I’m sure she’s with hers. This place is run a lot like the Kube where we were segregated by year when we ate. Bureaucratic minds think alike. I want to make contact with her, but in such a way that she doesn’t give the game away by making it obvious that she knows me. Dinner is amazing—I can see where the food alone would tempt some girls to become surrogates. I’m eagerly forking up fresh tilapia with pale orange flesh, obviously treated some way to make it resistant to the chemicals in the lake water, I assume, and enjoying crisp Brussels sprouts when the clatter of dropped utensils makes me turn. Halla has risen and is staring at me like she’s seen a ghost. My eyes beg her not to give us away.

  There is mingled hope and fear in her eyes.

  “What’s wrong, Halla?” a girl at her table asks.

  “Um, uh . . . a contraction. I think I had a contraction.” She doubles over convincingly and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  “Maybe you’re in labor,” her tablemate says. “Let’s get you to the clinic.” She leads Halla away.

  I return to eating, realizing that talking to Halla is going to be a challenge. With Fiere’s warning in mind, I have to find a natural way to bump into her. I can’t go sneaking through the halls at night, like we would at the Kube, to have a conversation in her room. I might have to wait until I’m assigned to her dorm to tell her the escape plan. Making an effort to talk to my tablemates, I finish the meal without coming up with a better plan than “seize any opportunity that arises.” As plans go, it seems inadequate.

  I dream again of killing the station master, of the crunching sound his windpipe made when my knife perforated it. I hadn’t noticed the sound at the time, but it crunches in my nightmares, waking me in a sweat. I sit up. It takes me a moment to remember where I am, to look around at the other sleeping women, visible by the blue glow of a bio-luminescent night light. One is tossing and turning, muttering in her sleep, and I wonder what her particular nightmare is. I lie back down, but stay awake until dawn, holding the albatross drawing and studying every pencil stroke and every permutation of light and shading.

  I don’t see Halla at breakfast and am a little worried. Maybe she is having an exam, or something, I speculate. No one comes for me, so I drift outside after the meal, getting a feel for the grounds. The surveillance micro-drones are everywhere and I can see soldiers patrolling outside the fence. This place takes its security seriously and I wonder if they’re more interested in keeping surrogates in or would-be rescuers or outlaws out. I’m sure the abundant food is a huge temptation for outlaws. Synthetic grass sweeps down to the lake, creating a pretty picture, and I stroll to the water’s edge. It’s an acid blue that doesn’t look natural up close, and signs warn against entering the water.

  Having established that I’m merely drifting around harmlessly, trying to get a feel for my new home, I leave the lake and head back to the main building. My target all along has been the DNA database. It’s almost got to be in the building Fiere labeled “administration” on her map. Cutting through the lounge area where expectant surrogates engage in innocuous pursuits, I exit on the far side of the building and amble down a walkway that leads to the administration building, a square, one-story structure. The door opens as I approach and a lab assistant pushing a cart loaded with vials in racks emerges. I politely hold the door for her, earning a “thank you,” and slip inside before it closes.

  The interior is a marked contrast to the birthing clinic. It’s stainless steel, tile, and white. Walls that are glass from ceiling to waist height reveal scientists at work on either side of me, hunched over microscopes, studying data on computer displays, and pipetting liquids into test tubes. It feels like home. I don’t know if it’s the hum and chirp of lab equipment and coolers, the mixed scent of chemicals and recirculated air, or the sense I get of people focused on their tasks, but a wave of homesickness for Dr. Ronan and my lab washes over me.

  I pass the labs slowly. No one pays attention to me. There’s a closed door at the end of the hall, with an iris scanner mounted at eye height. I’m sure this is where I’ll find the DNA database. How to get in? Before I even reach the door, a sharp voice calls, “Who are you and what are you doing in here?”

  I turn. It’s a lab coated woman with wide set eyes behind thick-lensed glasses. I’m willing to bet she runs the labs. I decide on a version of the truth. “I’m Everly Jax. I worked in the labs at Kube 9 and wanted to see what the set-up was here. I miss my work.”

  Her eyes are distorted behind the thick lenses, giving her what I’m sure is an illusory air of vagueness. “What were you working on?”

  It’s a test question. I give her a lengthy explanation of our how I was working to create a virus to wipe out the locusts. I explain the difficulty of infecting all the locusts so isolated pockets of the locust population don’t avoid infection and survive to reproduce and repopulate after the majority are killed off. When I pause for breath, she says, “Interesting approach. Why are you a surrogate? Surely you’ve been offered the opportunity to pursue your education and research?”

  “I think it’s every female citizen’s duty to bear a child for the state,” I say.

  “Commendable.” She says it like she means, “Stupid.” “Come in and see what you think of
our latest approach to reducing miscarriage. I’d be interested in your take on our efforts to avoid the trisomy that can accompany our mitochondrial-transferred embryos.”

  I’m burning to enter the lab, but the building door opens and a blue-coated technician appears. “Everly Jax? I’ve been searching for you for twenty minutes,” she says testily. “This area is off limits, as I’m sure Dr. Wendt has explained. It’s time.”

  For what? Then I know. Time for the procedure. My hands go cold.

  “Another time,” Dr. Wendt says, disappearing into her lab.

  I follow the technician out of the building and across to the birthing center. She leads me through the pink halls to a sterile suite where Dr. Malabar is waiting, a file in her hands. There’s a rolling tray holding a length of thin, flexible tubing and a syringe. My gaze fixes on the liquid in the syringe which contains the blastocyst they’re going to transfer to my uterus. I wiggle my big toe, comforted by the slight discomfort the pill beneath my nail causes.

  “Your tests were fine,” Dr. Malabar says, gesturing with the file, “so there’s no reason we can’t proceed."

  In a moment of piercing revelation, I realize I don’t have to break into the DNA database. Dr. Malabar is undoubtedly holding a copy of my DNA printout and everything related to it from the database. It’s right there, in that file mere inches away. My parents’ names. My genetic history. Who I am.

  “No need to be nervous.” Dr. Malabar misinterprets my suddenly shallow breathing. “The procedure is painless. We sedate you. It’s not medically necessary, but we find most of the surrogates are more comfortable with intravenous sedation during the procedure. You won’t be asleep, but you won’t remember the details. Jariah here will help you undress and prep you for the procedure. I’ll be back in a few minutes and then we’ll have you on your way to the expectant mothers’ quarters.” She smiles, but it’s an automatic reflex, part of her bedside manner.