Pump Six and Other Stories Part 26

I held onto the door. "But you must know someone who can help me." I was talking fast, trying to get all my words out before she used the gun. "I work on the city's sewage pumps. They're breaking, and I don't know how to fix them. I need someone who has engineering experience."

She was shaking her head and starting to wave the gun. I tried again. "Please! You've got to help. No one will talk to me, and you're going to be swimming in c.r.a.p if I don't find help. Pump Six serves the university and I don't know how to fix it!" I don't know how to fix it!"

She paused. She c.o.c.ked her head first one way, then the other. "Go on."

I briefly outlined the problems with the PressureDynes. When I finished, she shook her head and turned away. "You've wasted your time. We haven't had an engineering department in over twenty years." She went over to a reading table and took a couple swipes at its dust. Pulled out a chair and did the same with it. She sat, placing her pistol on the table, and motioned me to join her.

Warily, I brushed off my own seat. She laughed at the way my eyes kept going to her pistol. She picked it up and tucked it into a pocket of her moth-eaten sweater. "Don't worry. I won't shoot you now. I just keep it around in case the kids get belligerent. They don't very often, anymore, but you never know... " Her voice trailed off, as she looked out at the quad.

"How can you not have an engineering department?"

Her eyes swung back to me. "Same reason I closed the library." She laughed. "We can't have the students running around in here, can we?" She considered me for a moment, thoughtful. "I'm surprised you got in. I'm must be getting old, forgetting to lock up like that."

"You always lock it? Aren't you librarians-"

"I'm not a librarian," she interrupted. "We haven't had a librarian since Herman Hsu died." She laughed. "I'm just an old faculty wife. My husband taught organic chemistry before he died."

"But you're the one who put the chains on the doors?"

"There wasn't anyone else to do it. I just saw the students partying in here and realized something had to be done before they burned the d.a.m.n place down." She drummed her fingers on the table, raising little dust puffs with her boney digits as she considered me. Finally she said, "If I gave you the library keys, could you learn the things you need to know? About these pumps? Learn how they work? Fix them, maybe?"

"I doubt it. That's why I came here." I pulled out my earbug. "I've got the schematics right here. I just need someone to go over them for me."

"There's no one here who can help you." She smiled tightly. "My degree was in social psychology, not engineering. And really, there's no one else. Unless you count them." She waved at the students beyond the windows, humping in the quad. "Do you think that any of them could read your schematics?"

Through the smudged gla.s.s doors I could see the kids on the library steps, stripped down completely. They were humping away, grinning and having a good time. One of the girls saw me through the gla.s.s and waved at me to join her. When I shook my head, she shrugged and went back to her humping.

The old lady studied me like a vulture. "See what I mean?"

The girl got into her rhythm. She grinned at me watching, and motioned again for me to come out and play. All she needed were some big yellow eyes, and she would have made a perfect trog.

I closed my eyes and opened them again. Nothing changed. The girl was still there with all of her little play friends. All of them romping around and having a good time.

"The best and the brightest," the old lady murmured.

In the middle of the quad, more of the students were stripping down, none of them caring that they were doing it in the middle of broad daylight, none of them worried about who was watching, or what anyone might think. A couple hundred kids, and not a single one of them had a book, or a notebook, or pens, or paper, or a computer with them.

The old lady laughed. "Don't look so surprised. You can't say someone of your caliber never noticed." She paused, waiting, then peered at me, incredulous. "The trogs? The concrete rain? The reproductive disorders? You never wondered about any of it?" She shook her head. "You're stupider than I guessed."

"But... " I cleared my throat. "How could it... I mean... " I trailed off.

"Chemistry was my husband's field." She squinted at the kids humping on the steps and tangled out in the gra.s.s, then shook her head and shrugged. "There are plenty of books on the topic. For a while there were even magazine stories about it. 'Why breast might not be best.' Stuff like that. " She waved a hand impatiently. "Rohit and I never really thought about any of it until his students started seeming stupider every year." She cackled briefly. "And then he tested them, and he was right."

"We can't all be turning into trogs." I held up my bottle of Sweatshine. "How could I buy this bottle, or my earbug, or bacon, or anything? Someone has to be making these things."

"You found bacon? Where?" She leaned forward, interested.

"My wife did. Last packet."

She settled back with a sigh. "It doesn't matter. I couldn't chew it anyway." She studied my Sweatshine bottle. "Who knows? Maybe you're right. Maybe it's not so bad. But this is the longest conversation that I've had since Rohit died; most people just don't seem to be able to pay attention to things like they used to." She eyed me. "Maybe your Sweatshine bottle just means there's a factory somewhere that's as good as your sewage pumps used to be. And as long as nothing too complex goes wrong, we all get to keep drinking it."

"It's not that bad."

"Maybe not." She shrugged. "It doesn't matter to me, anymore. I'll kick off pretty soon. After that, it's your problem."

It was night by the time I came out of the university. I had a bag full of books, and no one to know that I'd taken them. The old lady hadn't cared if I checked them out or not, just waved at me to take as many as I liked, and then gave me the keys and told me to lock up when I left.

All of the books were thick with equations and diagrams. I'd picked through them one after another, reading each for a while, before giving up and starting on another. They were all pretty much gibberish. It was like trying to read before you knew your ABCs. Mercati had been right. I should have stayed in school. I probably wouldn't have done any worse than the Columbia kids.

Out on the street, half the buildings were dark. Some kind of brownout that ran all the way down Broadway. One side of the street had electricity, cheerful and bright. The other side had candles glimmering in all the apartment windows, ghost lights flickering in a pretty ambiance.

A crash of concrete rain echoed from a couple blocks away. I couldn't help shivering. Everything had turned creepy. It felt like the old lady was leaning over my shoulder and pointing out broken things everywhere. Empty autovendors. Cars that hadn't moved in years. Cracks in the sidewalk. p.i.s.s in the gutters.

What was normal supposed to look like?

I forced myself to look at good things. People were still out and about, walking to their dance clubs, going out to eat, wandering uptown or downtown to see their parents. Kids were on skateboards rolling past and trogs were humping in the alleys. A couple of vendor boxes were full of cellophane bagels, along with a big row of Sweatshine bottles all glowing green under their lights, still all stocked up and ready for sale. Lots of things were still working. Wicky was still a great club, even if Max needed a little help remembering to restock. And Miku and Gabe had their new baby, even if it took them three years to get it. I couldn't let myself wonder if that baby was going to turn out like the college kids in the quad. Not everything was broken.

As if to prove it, the subway ran all the way to my stop for a change. Somewhere on the line, they must have had a couple guys like me, people who could still read a schematic and remember how to show up for work and not throw toilet paper around the control rooms. I wondered who they were. And then I wondered if they ever noticed how hard it was to get anything done.

When I got home, Maggie was already in bed. I gave her a kiss and she woke up a little. She pushed her hair away from her face. "I left out a hotpack burrito for you. The stove's still broke."

"Sorry. I forgot. I'll fix it now."

"No worry." She turned away from me and pulled the sheets up around her neck. For a minute, I thought she'd dozed off, but then she said, "Trav?"

"Yeah?"

"I got my period."

I sat down beside her and started ma.s.saging her back. "How you doing with that?"

"S'okay. Maybe next time." She was already dropping back to sleep. "You just got to stay optimistic, right?"

"That's right, baby." I kept rubbing her back. "That's right."

When she was asleep, I went back to the kitchen. I found the hotpack burrito and shook it and tore it open, holding it with the tips of my fingers so I wouldn't burn myself. I took a bite, and decided the burritos were still working just fine. I dumped all the books onto the kitchen table and stared at them, trying to decide where to start.

Through the open kitchen windows, from the direction of the park, I heard another crash of concrete rain. I looked out toward the candle- flicker darkness. Not far away, deep underground, nine pumps were chugging away; their little flashers winking in and out with errors, their maintenance logs scrolling repair requests, and all of them running a little harder now that Pump Six was down. But they were still running. The people who'd built them had done a good job. With luck, they'd keep running for a long time yet.

I chose a book at random and started reading.

Small Offerings.

Readouts glow blue on driplines where they burrow into Maya Ong's spine. She lies on the birthing table, her dark eyes focused on her husband while I sit on a stool between her legs and wait for her baby.

There are two halves of Maya. Above the blue natal sheet, she holds her husband's hand and sips water and smiles tiredly at his encouragement. Below it, hidden from view and hidden from sensation by steady surges of Sifusoft, her body lies nude, her legs strapped into birthing stirrups. Purnate hits her belly in rhythmic bursts, pressing the fetus down her birth ca.n.a.l, and toward my waiting hands.

I wonder if G.o.d forgives me for my part in her prenatal care. Forgives me for encouraging the full course of treatment.

I touch my belt remote and thumb up another 50ml of Purnate. The readouts flicker and display the new dose as it hisses into Maya's spine and works its way around to her womb. Maya inhales sharply, then lies back and relaxes, breathing deeply as I m.u.f.fle her pain response in swaddling layers of Sifusoft. Ghostly data flickers and scrolls at the perimeter of my vision: heart rate, blood pressure, oxygenation, fetal heart rate, all piped directly to my optic nerve by my Meda.s.sist implant.

Maya cranes her neck around to see me. "Dr. Mendoza? Lily?" Her words slur under the drugs, come out slow and dreamy.

"Yes?"

"I can feel it kicking."

My neck p.r.i.c.kles. I force a smile "They're natal phantasms. Illusions generated by the gestation process."

"No." Maya shakes her head, emphatic. "I feel it. It's kicking." She touches her belly. "I feel it now."

I come around the natal sheet and touch her hand. "It's all right, Maya. Let's just relax. I'll see what we can do to keep you comfortable."

Ben leans down and kisses his wife's cheek. "You're doing great, honey, just a little longer."

I give her hand a rea.s.suring pat. "You're doing a wonderful thing for your baby. Let's just relax now and let nature take its course."

Maya smiles dreamily in agreement and her head rolls back. I let out a breath I hadn't known I was holding and start to turn away. Maya lurches upright. She stares at me, suddenly alert, as if all the birthing drugs have been lifted off her like a blanket, leaving her cold and awake and aggressive.

Her dark eyes narrow with madness. "You're going to kill it."

Uh-oh. I thumb my belt unit for the orderlies. I thumb my belt unit for the orderlies.

She grabs Ben by the shoulder. "Don't let her take it. It's alive, honey. Alive!"

"Honey-"

She yanks him close. "Don't let her take our baby!" She turns and snarls at me. "Get out. Get out!" She lunges for a water gla.s.s on her bedside table. "Get out!" She flings it at me. I duck and it shatters against the wall. Gla.s.s shards pepper my neck. I get ready to dodge another attack but instead Maya grabs the natal sheet and yanks it down, exposing her nude lower half splayed for birth. She claws at her birth stirrups like a wolf in a trap.

I spin the dials on my belt remote, jam up her Purnate and shut off her Sifusoft as she throws herself against the stirrups again. The birthing table tilts alarmingly. I lunge to catch it. She flails at me and her nails gouge my face. I jerk away, clutching my cheek. I wave to her husband, who is standing dumbly on the opposite side of the birth table, staring. "Help me hold her!"

He snaps out of his paralysis; together we wrestle her back onto the table and then a new contraction hits and she sobs and curls in on herself. Without Sifusoft, there is nothing to hide the birth's intensity. She rocks against the pain, shaking her head and moaning, small and beaten. I feel like a bully. But I don't restart the pain killers.

She moans, "Oh G.o.d. Oh, G.o.d. Oh. G.o.d."

Benjamin puts his head down beside her, strokes her face. "It's okay, honey. It's going to be fine." He looks up at me, hoping for confirmation. I make myself nod.

Another Purnate-induced contraction hits. They're coming fast now, her body completely in the grip of the overdose I've flushed into her. She pulls her husband close and whispers, "I don't want this, honey. Please, it's a sin." Another contraction hits. Less than twenty seconds apart.

Two thick-armed female orderlies draped in friendly pink blouses finally come thumping through the door and move to restrain her. The cavalry always arrives too late. Maya brushes at them weakly until another contraction hits. Her naked body arches as the baby begins its final pa.s.sage into our world.

"The pretty queen of the hypocritic oath arrives."

Dmitri sits amongst his brood, my sin and my redemption bound in one gaunt and sickly man. His shoulders rise and fall with labored asthmatic breathing. His cynical blue eyes bore into me. "You're bloodied."

I touch my face, come away with wet fingers. "A patient went natal."

All around us, Dmitri's test subjects scamper, shrieking and warring, an entire tribe of miscalibrated humanity, all gathered together under Dmitri's care. If I key in patient numbers on my belt unit, I get Meda.s.sist laundry lists of pituitary misfires, adrenal tumors, s.e.xual malformations, attention and learning disorders, thyroid malfunctions, IQ fall-offs, hyperactivity and aggression. An entire ward full of poster-children for chemical legislation that never finds its way out of government committee.

"Your patient went natal." Dmitri's chuckle comes as a low wheeze. Even in this triple-filtered air of the hospital's chemical intervention ward, he barely takes enough oxygen to stay alive. "What a surprise. Emotion trumps science once again." His fingers drum compulsively on the bed of an inert child beside him: a five-year-old girl with the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of a grown woman. His eyes flick to the body and back to me. "No one seems to want prenatal care these days, do they?" patient went natal." Dmitri's chuckle comes as a low wheeze. Even in this triple-filtered air of the hospital's chemical intervention ward, he barely takes enough oxygen to stay alive. "What a surprise. Emotion trumps science once again." His fingers drum compulsively on the bed of an inert child beside him: a five-year-old girl with the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of a grown woman. His eyes flick to the body and back to me. "No one seems to want prenatal care these days, do they?"

Against my will, I blush; Dmitri's mocking laughter rises briefly before dissolving into coughing spasms that leave him keeled over and gasping. He wipes his mouth on his lab coat's sleeve and studies the resulting b.l.o.o.d.y smear. "You should have sent her to me. I could have convinced her."

Beside us, the girl lies like a wax dummy, staring at the ceiling. Some bizarre c.o.c.ktail of endocrine disruptors has rendered her completely catatonic. The sight of her gives me courage "Do you have any more squeegees?"

Dmitri laughs, sly and insinuating. His eyes flick to my damaged cheek. "And what would your sharp-nailed patient say, if she found out?"

"Please, Dmitri. Don't. I hate myself enough already."

"I'm sure. Caught between your religion and your profession. I'm surprised your husband even tolerates your work."

I look away. "He prays for me."

"G.o.d solves everything, I understand."

"Don't."

Dmitri smiles. "It's probably what I've missed in my research. We should all just beg G.o.d to keep babies from absorbing their mother's chemical sludge. With a little Sunday prayer, Lily, you can go back to pushing folate and vitamins. Problem solved." He stands abruptly, coming to his full six-and-a-half feet like a spider unfolding. "Come, let us consummate your hypocrisy before you change your mind. I couldn't bear it if you decided to rely on your faith."

Inside Dmitri's lab, fluorescent lights glare down on stainless steel countertops and test equipment.

Dmitri rustles through drawers one after another, searching. On the countertop before him, a gobbet of flesh lies marooned, wet and incongruous on the sterile gleaming surface. He catches me staring at it.

"You will not recognize it. You must imagine it smaller."

One portion is larger than an eyeball. The rest is slender, a dangling subsection off the main ma.s.s. Meat and veiny fatty gunk. Dmitri rustles through another drawer. Without looking up, he answers his own riddle. "A pituitary gland. From an eight-year-old female. She had terrible headaches."

I suck in my breath. Even for Chem-Int, it's a freak of nature.

Dmitri smiles at my reaction. "Ten times oversized. Not from a vulnerable population, either: excellent prenatal care, good filter-mask practices, low-pesticide food sources." He shrugs. "We are losing our battle, I think." He opens another drawer. "Ah. Here." He pulls out a foil-wrapped square the size of a condom, stamped in black and yellow, and offers it to me. "My trials have already recorded the dose as dispensed. It shouldn't affect the statistics." He nods at the flesh gobbet. "And certainly, she will not miss it."

The foil is stamped "NOT FOR SALE" along with a tracking number and the intertwined DNA and microscope icon of the FDA Human Trials Division. I reach for it, but Dmitri pulls it away. "Put it on before you leave. It has a new backing: cellular foil. Trackable. You can only wear it in the hospital." He tosses me the packet, shrugs apologetically. "Our sponsors think too many doses are walking away."