Dr. Maureen Fitzberger, “Mo” to her friends, stared at the readout on the screen. She realized her mouth was open and closed it with an audible snap before anyone could happen by her little lab cubicle and catch her staring like an idiot. She swallowed hard, trying to ignore the sudden thumping of her heart as she glanced around, and then looked at the screen again.
“…viable embryo. Gestational age: twelve weeks…”
It wasn’t possible! Well, it shouldn’t be possible. Sure, she’d been taking the hormone supplements to extend the lifespan of her fertility like every other female member of the crew, but just like all of them, she also had a birth control implant! What the hell had happened?
Okay, so she knew what had happened. That lovely young pilot named Haskins. But that had just been fun, blowing off steam. Mo hadn’t seriously been considering him as a permanent partner!
“What’s going on, Mo?”
Mo looked up as her medic walked in. She forced her lips to smile and hoped she didn’t look whiter than her normal redhead pallor. She certainly felt pale.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah, Doc,” Mo said, shaking her head slightly and forcing herself to focus on her friend’s face. Desmond “Doc” Joel wasn’t actually a medical doctor, but he’d earned the nickname as a military medic back on Earth. After he’d gotten out, he’d been certified as a civilian paramedic and eventually found his way into the pool of applicants selected for this scout-colony mission.
The irony, of course, was that despite her years in applied genetics, Mo was trained as an M.D. Like everyone else, though, she called the medic “Doc.” Military nicknames were like that. They snuck in everywhere.
“Something’s got you rattled,” Doc insisted, setting down the customary coffee thermos and lowering his muscled body into the chair at his usual workstation next to hers. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“The opposite, actually,” Mo heard herself say, then gave a kind of strangled laugh. “I suppose you’ll have to know eventually. I certainly won’t be able to do what’s necessary without you.”
“What?” Doc asked, his smile draining away. His blue eyes went flat and calm in a way that Mo had only seen a few other times, usually when a patient wasn’t going to make it. It was the look of a professional compartmentalizing their feelings and preparing to do the job, whatever it took. Mo didn’t know much about Doc’s military service, but she knew he’d seen, and presumably done, some heavy stuff. Most people didn’t volunteer for a one-way mission like theirs unless they had.
“No,” Mo said quickly, swiping her screen to send her display over to his workstation. “Nothing like that. It’s just…something unexpected has developed. My implant failed, apparently. I’m twelve weeks pregnant.”
“Pregnant,” Doc said, and Mo could hear a breath of relief in his tone. “Damn, Mo, you scared me. But…is that good?”
“I don’t know,” she said, fighting the urge to bite her lip. “I mean, I suppose so… It means the hormone therapies are working. But we’re just not set up to provide prenatal care here!”
“Yeah, but how hard can it be?” Doc asked, giving her his usual quick grin. “I mean, women had babies for millennia on Earth before the invention of the o-b-g-y-n, right?”
“Yeah, and had an astronomical mortality rate for mother and child!” Mo said, unable to keep from rolling her eyes. Doc’s smile grew, indicating that he’d tossed the banter her way deliberately—probably to help her relax.
He was good, real good. She let out a little laugh and shook her head again.
“All right,” she said. “Point taken. It’s not like I don’t know what to do, after all. And you can deliver the baby when it comes to that. But there’s more to think about before we get to that point.”
“Like what?” Doc asked. He leaned forward and began tapping on his keyboard.
“Well,” Mo said, “lots of things. All those millennia of women weren’t part of an interstellar scout-colony expedition. Gestational experiments in space have had…mixed results.”
“Yeah,” Doc said. “Microgravity and radiation, right? The kid’s gonna need gravity to be able to develop an inner ear, and you’re gonna need to stay in the shielded part of the ship for the duration…unless…do you want me to put you back in stasis? I can wake up one of the other docs to take your place on this last shift, then wake you up right before we make planetfall.”
Mo shook her head.
“No,” she said, “that’s no good. One of the stasis prep drugs is contraindicated for pregnancy. Interferes with early neurological development. In trials, most mammalian mothers spontaneously aborted, and those who made it to term didn’t produce viable offspring. We can’t put someone in stasis until they’re over five years of age.”
“And we make landfall in three years,” Doc finished for her. “Okay, so no stasis.”
“No stasis…but there’s another thing.”
“What’s that?” Doc asked.
Mo leaned toward him and lowered her voice.
“Doc,” she said, “this…this is an opportunity.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” she said. “We don’t know much about our new planet, right? I mean, we have the survey reports, but they’re several centuries old by now. And I know that’s nothing in geological time, but still…that’s why we’re a scout colony. Scouting it out first, establishing a beachhead for others to follow, right? What if we find conditions that require adaptation?”
“We’re expecting that, aren’t we?” Doc said, his brow furrowing slightly in a frown. “That’s why we sent the high-speed probes ahead to Bonfils well before our ship launched. As we get closer and receive more data, we’ll compensate with mechanical means first, and then follow up with gene therapies as necessary.”
“Right,” Mo said. “But what if we could start right away with the gene therapies? What if we could use my baby’s stem cells to create genetic solutions before we even make planetfall? Those of us already born could see moderate adaptive success, but the next generation…the next generation could be fully adapted! No mechanical assistive devices required, regardless of the air composition, mineral cocktail, weird alien bacteriological or viral beasties…all of that! We can start right away!”
As she spoke, the idea took root in Mo’s mind, and the possibilities started to open up one by one. She could hear her voice accelerate as she got more and more excited about the idea, and she felt her cheeks heat up with an excited flush that chased away the last of her surprise pallor.
“So, you’d use your child as a guinea pig?” Doc asked, arching an eyebrow.
“Oh, bugger off,” Mo said, laughing. That was Doc, always with the banter. “Yeah. Yeah, I would, if it meant that she had a better shot at a quality life on her new home. We’re explorers, Doc! They told us that over and over again when we prepped for this mission. Hell, it’s why I’m here! I’m supposed to design gene therapies to help Homo sapiens become successful on this new planet. But what if what we need is to stop being Homo sapiens altogether? What if what we need is to become something else? What if we need to become Homo stellaris?”
* * *
Mo heaved, but she’d already launched her meager breakfast into the toilet chute and so all that came up was a thin stream of bile. Her stomach roiled again as she closed her eyes and prayed to whomever may be listening to make it stop.
“Here,” Doc said. He sounded supremely sympathetic. Mo felt something cold and wet settle against the back of her neck. “It doesn’t help, but it feels nice and cool.”
“Thanks,” Mo croaked, spitting. She let out a sigh and settled back onto her heels from her kneeling position. “Morning sickness blows.”
“Technically, it’s midafternoon,” Doc said.
In lieu of an answer, Mo lifted her left hand vaguely in his direction, middle finger extended. Doc let out a gravelly chuckle in response.
“Just trying to take your mind o
ff your stomach.”
“Can we talk about something else?” Mo reached up and pulled the wet cloth off the back of her neck. Doc was right, it had felt nice.
“Sure. Wanna see the results of your last ultrasound?”
“Okay” Mo said, straightening slowly up from her lean. When her stomach didn’t protest too much, she rolled back over her feet until she was sitting on her butt. Then she swiveled around to lean her back against the bulkhead. Without being asked, Doc held out a bottle of water to her. She grasped it with a grunt of thanks and took a mouthful. It tasted like Doc had added peppermint oil, and probably some electrolytes. She washed it around and then spat it carefully in the toilet chute, followed by a small sip.
So far, so good.
“Okay,” Doc said, once it became clear that Mo wasn’t going to start throwing up again. “Everything seems to be proceeding apace. Fetal development is meeting the milestones you outlined for the most part. That’s the good news.”
“What’s the bad news?”
“The bad news is that I followed a hunch and did some research. I’ve figured out why your morning sickness is so bad.”
“Wait…what? How’s that bad news?”
“Because,” Doc said, leaning back on his desk and crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s the anti-spin cocktail for your inner ear that’s exacerbating the problem. Do you remember being briefed on the effects of simulating gravity using rotation?”
“Yes,” Mo said, swallowing hard against another wave of the ever-present nausea. “Turn your head and you puke.”
“Succinct,” Doc replied with a tiny grin. “But essentially correct. So we give everyone a med cocktail to mitigate the effects on the inner ear that cause the disorientation and nausea. Problem is…here, can you read this?”
He held out a tablet. The display showed a journal page. With a tap of his finger, Doc highlighted a few words in a paragraph about midway down.
“…such a cocktail is contraindicated for pregnancy. Test subjects in all stages of gravidity showed an elevated incidence of hyperemesis gravidarum. Though no other side effects were noted, offspring of mothers experiencing hyperemesis showed markedly lower birth weights and correspondingly higher incidences of birth complications…” Mo looked up from the slate. “So the drugs are making it worse.”
“They are,” Doc said. “We need to get you off of them, because while you’re meeting milestones, you’re doing so slower than you should. That means that you’re going to have a hell of a time in the living quarters. Though, if my gut is correct, your inner ear will eventually be able to adapt, and you’ll get used to it, somewhat. Ever heard of a Bárány chair?”
“No,” Mo said, once again fighting nausea.
“They used them in the old days to cure pilots of airsickness. Basically, it’s a chair on casters. The student pilots would sit in them, spin around, tilt, and have to do tasks until they felt like throwing up. Eventually, the inner ear adjusts and the student doesn’t get sick anymore. It worked really well. I suspect this will be similar.”
“How do you know this stuff?” Mo asked, lifting her head and trying not to glare at Doc as her stomach started to roil again.
“Grandma Ida was a pilot,” Doc said with a grin. “She had to spin all the way through her primary training. But I’ll tell you, the woman never once got motion sickness. Not ever.”
“Okay. I come off the drugs, and maybe start gaining some weight. But I’ll still throw up occasionally because of the spin-induced vertigo.”
“Until your inner ear adjusts, probably.”
“Fantastic,” Mo groaned, dropping her forehead to her knees once more.
“We still need to monitor your radiation exposure too,” Doc said. “Your lab and living quarters are pretty well shielded, but the problem with being on the end of the spin arm is that it’s not as well shielded as the center of the ship…but I think it’s still worth it to have normal skeletal and inner-ear development. That said, if the cosmic ray detector goes off then you need to hightail it back to one of the radiation shelters.”
“Agree,” Mo said, “and I have an idea about the microgravity problem.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. There was a study back in the early 2000s. It’s pretty obscure now, but I found it when I was doing my research. Basically, a bunch of snails—several animals, really, but the snails are the important ones here—were gestated in microgravity. When they were hatched and returned to Earth, the animals had a hard time establishing a sense of balance. Like we’ve talked about before.”
“Right,” Doc said. “And the further trials involving placental mammals bore that out with underdeveloped inner-ear mechanisms. The offspring eventually adjusted, but it took longer than the period of readjustment for adults.”
“Yes, but not for the snails,” Mo said, managing a wan smile, even though it felt like her insides were about to crawl out of her mouth again. “They adjusted quicker than any other space-born animal, but that detail was never emphasized in the larger study. But when I looked into it, I found out why. Snails have the same kind of gravitoreceptors as humans do. Ours is in our inner ear. Theirs is…well, elsewhere, anyway. The point is, the space-born snails had gravitoreceptor sizes that nearly tripled the norm.”
“They were compensating,” Doc said with a small grin.
“Yes,” Mo said. “Exactly. So while I still want to stay out of microgravity for the skeletal development, I can develop a gene therapy regimen that will grow my baby’s gravitoreceptors similar to those of the snails…so she won’t have to puke her guts out if she has to live in space.”
“Nice work,” Doc said. “If you’re sure…”
“I am,” Mo said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to throw up again.”
* * *
“Damn it,” Doc said. He moved the ultrasound wand slightly, but the image on the display didn’t change.
“Hello little hamburger,” Mo said, feeling giddy and silly. “Read it and weep, Doc. You lose.”
“Fine, a bottle of my best hooch,” the medic said. “Too bad you can’t drink. I guess I’ll just have to drink it for you. How did you know?”
“That she’s a girl? I don’t know,” Mo said. “I just knew. Gut feeling, I guess. Some mystical mother-child connection bullshit, perhaps?”
“Huh, maybe,” Doc said. “But you’re right. She’s definitely a girl. And all her development looks good, if I’m doing this right.”
“Looks like you are to me,” Mo said. “The big thing is moving the wand slowly, understanding that you’re seeing in layers, but yeah. I agree. She’s doing just fine, aren’t you, little star?”
Doc smiled slightly and ducked his head, likely at the soft tone that crept into Mo’s voice when she addressed her unborn daughter. Mo figured she’d catch hell for it from him later, but she honestly didn’t care. Pregnancy was affecting her in ways she hadn’t ever imagined it would. Soft, vulnerable emotions welled up within her without notice, filling her eyes and making her sniffle. Yet, a hard practicality had solidified within her mind: She would protect the precious life inside her from whatever loomed on their new home. She would manipulate her daughter’s genome as much as it took to ensure that she would not only survive colonizing a new planet…but thrive.
“Are you going to cry again?” Doc asked. Mo blinked suddenly and forced her eyes to focus on him.
“Oh, shut up, sore loser,” she said gruffly. Doc just chuckled and handed her a large alcohol wipe.
“Clean yourself up,” he said. “The all-hands meeting is in a few minutes. You’re still sure you want to go through with this?”
“Gotta tell them all sometime,” Mo said. “Might as well get it over with. Especially since I’m asking them to change our mission priorities once we make landfall.”
“Fair enough,” Doc said. “She’s your baby.”
“That’s just it,” Mo said as she sat up and began cleaning the ultrasound gel off of her bar
ely rounded stomach. “She is, but in a way, she will soon belong to all of us.”
* * *
“…as we draw nearer to our new home, we’re able to receive better and more complete intel reports on conditions at the surface. I will use that data to determine a course of prenatal and early childhood gene therapies to maximize my daughter’s chance of successful adaptation to the new world. She will be, in effect, the mother of a new race of humanity. She will be this planet’s Eve.”
Mo took a breath and looked around the conference room at the stunned faces. Silence greeted the end of her prepared remarks as the other members of the crew digested the information she’d just given them. Nerves began to flutter in her stomach, and she glanced over at Doc, who leaned against the entrance hatch.
He flashed her a thumbs-up and gave her a nod, but it didn’t help. If only someone would say something…
The shift captain looked around and slowly raised his hand.
“Yes!” Mo said, pointing at him like a drowning woman points at a life preserver. “Captain Johnson, you have a question?”
“Well,” the captain said, coming to his feet. “Yes. Several, in fact. But first, I want to offer my congratulations, Mo. I know this wasn’t planned, but I have always thought that a new baby should be celebrated, regardless of the circumstances.”
“Thank you, sir,” Mo said, giving him a tremulous smile. She gripped the edge of her podium and willed her knees to stop shaking.
“Second,” the captain said. “I just want to be sure I understand what you’re telling us. You propose to create a course of genetic therapy to ensure your daughter’s full adaptation to our new planet…and what? To extend that therapy course to all of the children that we will hopefully, eventually have?”
“Yes, sir,” Mo said. “Or at least to all whose parents want it for them. We know that Bonfils is a close Earth analogue, but not exact. Some adaptation will be required. Our original plans were to compensate with mechanical means as long as necessary…but if I can give my daughter a childhood free of breathing masks and other assistive devices we might need, I would prefer that option. Please note, I mean no insult to those who might choose otherwise for their children. I just… I’m offering the option. The adaptations will have to be made somehow. With this pregnancy, we have the option to make them sooner rather than later.”
Stellaris: People of the Stars Page 8