The Egg Code (41 page)

Women in Science

1988

Old and alone, Kay rode in the back of a taxi heading west on I-94, past the outskirts of metro Detroit. Her contact was a Gloria representative named Jersey Crater, who taught at the University of Michigan, just ten miles down the road. Together, the university and the GC managed the NSFNET backbone; IBM and MCI both contributed equipment, man-hours, headache and worry, their efforts aimed at constructing a network of 1.544 Mbps T-1 fiber optics, able to serve thirteen sites across the country. For nearly twenty years, the network had remained the domain of special interests—academics primarily, plus a few thousand enthusiasts who traded tips on public-access bulletin boards. With the new system in place, things would change. It was time to go commercial.

The headquarters for the Gloria Corporation were set back in a thicket of spruce and pine. A low sign marked the entrance: GLORIA, it said, a squat little box, glowing from within. Once inside, Kay was greeted by Crater, an unhealthy-looking young man who walked with a stoop, stopping sometimes to shake his leg before moving on. “Bad circulation,” he muttered as they rode the elevator two flights down to sub-level B. “This job’ll kill you.”

Past the elevators, they entered a computer room, where a half-dozen technicians gathered around a drafting table. Quiet men, they smiled at Kay with exaggerated formality, then returned to work. Near the back of the room, she noticed a little girl dressed in rugged clothing—overalls, black leather boots. Her hair was cut short, and her big round face quaked tearfully as she sat cross-legged in her chair. “Daddy,” she cried.

“Hey, K-ster,” Crater said, picking her up and setting her back down on a counter. Catching his breath, he rifled through a messy pile of charts and pulled out a stack of graph paper. “Katie’s going to help us out today,” he explained. “There’s a problem with the access port. We need tiny hands.”

Working quickly, he sketched a diagram, lines and crosses representing wires and circuits. The girl hopped down and peered at the drawing. “That’s not what it looks like,” she said.

The pen slowed; Crater frowned, annoyed. “What do you mean?”

She pointed at the diagram. “Look,” she said, grabbing a pencil. “Here’s the NOC—right here, see—so if I divert the signal, then we’re screwed—”

“Don’t say ‘screwed.’ ”

“I always say ‘screwed.’ ”

“Not anymore you don’t.” Crater smoothed the page, including both Kay and Katie in the conversation. “Here’s the deal. Right now there are two systems running. The old NSFNET and the new one. The old one’s a piece of junk, so we’re going to take it down. This is where Katie’s little-bitty fingers come in.” Turning in his chair, he tried to kiss his daughter’s hand, but she snatched it away and glared at the ceiling.

Kay flushed. Neither she nor Macheath had ever talked down to their kids. Lydia in particular would not have tolerated it. Now almost thirty, her youngest daughter lived in Crane City with her husband and their first child, Simon, who’d turned one just a few days ago. A nervous mother, Lydia had nearly lost the baby; throughout the pregnancy, the fetus seemed to dangle on a wire-thin cord, forever on the verge of liquid oblivion. Even now he looked sickly, undersized. Kay secretly felt sorry for the boy.
Lydia as a parent!
Good luck, kid, you’ll need it.

Across the table, Crater and his daughter were still arguing over the diagram. Settling on something, Katie led the way to a low opening in the wall, about two feet across. The other researchers followed, bringing their coffees as they gathered around the hatch. A steel panel blocked the entrance. On his knees, Crater unscrewed the four corners and the panel banged to the floor. Dull green light filled a narrow tunnel that tilted out of view.

Kay moved through the crowd, pulling the little girl to one side. “Have you done this before?” she asked.

“Not exactly,” Katie explained, snorfling between words, her nose running. “But when I was six? And my dad took me to New York? That was almost the same thing, because I had to set up all these High Speed Network Relays, and my dad said, ‘You don’t know what you’re doing, you’re just a little
gurrrl
,’ and I said, ‘Nunt-unh, I know better than you—wanna see?’ and so I showed him, and the lady from the university was really impressed, and she gave me this award called
Women in Science
.”

“Oh, well . . . that sounds real . . . good . . .” Dazed, Kay stepped aside as an in-house photographer took a few pictures for the quarterly newsletter. Tiny Katie stood in front of the opening, holding a miner’s helmet under her arm. Kay stayed out of the way; when the little girl smiled at her, she smiled back.

“Now listen,” Crater said, tightening a leather utility belt around his daughter’s waist. “This is important. Don’t touch the T-1 connection—”

“I
won’t
.”

“Let me finish.” Miffed, he raised his hand; Katie stood on one leg, unimpressed. “This equipment is very expensive, and I don’t want you to break anything. That means no guessing, no screwing around.”

“I’m not re
tar
ded,” Katie sang out as the researchers smiled and sipped their coffees.

“Don’t be funny,” her father said. “Just remember, those LSI-11 Fuzzballs have got to go. All six of them. And be sure to test the NCSA link before you come out. Otherwise we lose the Midwest.”

Saluting, Katie dropped to her knees and peered down the tunnel. “It’s cold in there,” she said, then crawled inside, moving ahead in short bursts, sliding one leg, then the other. Reflected light bled along the walls before shivering into darkness.

“How long will this take?” Kay asked, trying not to sound like a grand-mother.

Crater appeared unconcerned as he monitored his daughter’s progress over a walkie-talkie. “Half an hour, maybe,” he shrugged. Catching a look from Kay, he added, “It’s warmer near the bottom.”

“I’m sure.” Feeling anxious, Kay gazed into the empty hatchway and listened. Katie’s sliding kneepads made a soft noise, like a bird’s wing brushing against a window.

“This is the last time,” Crater assured her, playing with the dials of his walkie-talkie. “When we revamp the network for good, we won’t have to worry about this stuff anymore.”

“For good?”

“Sure. This upgrade won’t last the decade. That’s why we set up the Network Operations Center. Too many problems—renegade routers freaking out, sending bad signals. They’re like bratty little kids. Everyone’s got to be number one.” He looked at his watch, then raised his walkie-talkie and pushed the button. “How you doing down there, hon?” Finally, a soft voice answered, “It smells.”

“She sounds scared,” Kay said, cursing herself for worrying about the kid.
Let her learn
, she thought. Wandering away, she found a small break room and poured herself a cup of decaf. Nothing happened for a while. Nervous, she went back to Crater, who was speaking into the walkie-talkie. “What’s going on, K-ster?”

“I’m busy!” a high voice raged. Her father winced and put the radio down.

After a few minutes, Kay began to fidget, so she kneeled to peer inside the tunnel. It extended back about ten feet, then split into five corridors, each attached to the same main branch. It looked, she imagined, like the inside of a heart.

Soon the floor of the tunnel began to shake. “Hold on,” she called out. “She’s coming back up.”

She backed away as Katie appeared, her face smudged with mud. She looked pale and tired, as if she’d been gone for days. Cheering, the researchers lifted her out and propped her against the wall.

Crater came up from behind, hefting a bottle of champagne. “Think I should let her have a sip?” he asked, smiling at Kay.

For a moment, Kay felt like scolding him; this kind of behavior—so reckless, so arrogant—was something unique to the federal government. Seeing the little girl, however, she changed her mind. “First get her some oxygen,” she said. “Then the champagne.”

Crater laughed, and Kay felt an odd gratitude toward the man, considering the network, the years ahead. Strange times posed strange questions. She wondered whether she, too, would have the courage to send her own child into the heart of the machine.

The Planning Stages

October 13, 1989

Lydia:

Here’s twelve thousand dollars, which should take care of your third-quarter payments, plus any extra cash you might need to cover the
moving expenses. I hope you and Steve and darling Simon are enjoying
your new home! I’ve set your mortgage at seven percent over thirty years,
which should average out to about $2,750 per quarter, which is quite
reasonable given the location. I’m dealing directly with the banks out
here in Washington, but if something happens to me you’ll need to know
who to contact. My financial advisor is Mitchell Frenkle, and you can
reach him at the P.O. Box listed below. When I die, I’ve ordered Mitch to
manage this account, because I know how busy you are, what with a
new child in the house and probably many more on the way. I trust that
you will not need to relocate anytime soon. Steve may find the commute
inconvenient at first, but in time he’ll come to enjoy the drive. It is my
wish that you will remain in Big Dipper Township for many years.
Simon will have children of his own one day, and it’s every family’s
dream to own a house and then pass it along. I’m sure you’ll learn to
appreciate your little piece of wilderness. God knows, you deserve it.

Fondly,
Your Mother

June 8, 1989

Dear Ben:

Do we have a problem here? I gave you a certified check for forty-eight
thousand dollars, and you told me over the phone that you’d have the
deeds carried over by the end of the month. It’s a week already, and I’ve
got Kay Tree coming into my office every single day, and she’s worried
about getting hit with the property taxes come April. I SYMPATHIZE
WITH HER ENTIRELY! There’s no reason why this should take so
long. We will handle the background check—that’s our job, not yours.
That property has been sitting vacant for nearly three years, we’ve got a
family all set and ready to go, and I’m starting to get pissed off! There
is
no zoning issue so far as I can tell. Those are residential homes, and if
the people from the Gloria Corporation want to buy up the whole state,
then that’s their problem because they can’t do it! They already own the
fucking airspace, but that doesn’t mean they can just swoop right in and
nullify our contract. So you ignore their memorandum, all right? That’s
my advice to you. I want this resolved by the thirteenth. If you need to
get in touch with me, go through Kay, who’s still got her place up in
Georgetown. Do it. Now.

Mitch.

April 19, 1989

Dear Mitch:

As far as the husband goes, you don’t have to worry about him—he’s an
idiot. Lydia is a smart woman, but far too self-absorbed to ask any
questions. Besides, she needs a break. She’s been living in that miserable
city for too long. Now, with the money situation, we have to do a few
things. We already know what’s in our budget—that’s not a problem.
But this is a long-term expenditure. We’re not going to be in power for
much longer, and we need to make sure that some new broom isn’t going
to come in and screw up our accounting system. We’ll have to do a
money transfer—it’s very easy, just a matter of punching in a few
numbers, but it’ll make a big difference. Gloria will probably pressure
the local agent to hold a public hearing, but that’s a lot of hot air and
Ben Donaldson should be able to handle them. Ben has set up hundreds
of acquisitions through the DCA, and he’s our best contact in the private
sector. As far as we’re concerned, this is a standard property purchase,
and even if the Gloria Corporation tries to launch their own
investigation, they should hit a roadblock fairly early on. It’s important,
however, that we keep this space filled, at least until the situation
changes. We already know about this Hasse character—what he’s doing
out there, I don’t know. It’s a matter of equal representation—they have
their man on the case, we have ours. Anyway, let’s keep in touch.

My love,
Kay

March 28, 1989

Kay—
Got it. Okay. Let’s go.

—Mitch

3-26-89
START TRANSMISSION:

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10001010111011100110101010101010101010101001101010101
01011010100101010101010101010100101011001010101010100
01011101010011101010101110101010010100110101110101001
10111010101010101100100100010011010101101110101001101
01010001010111101010001010101010101010101010110001000
1001100100100101010001101010101010101010101101010100
10101010101010101100101010101010101010101010101011010

—END.

XXIV

Back to the Womb

Parthenogenesis

1999

Lydia turned off the TV and lit another cigarette. It was early one April morning and a deer was shitting in the yard; steam rose from the curl of scat. Since the separation, she’d taken to staying up ridiculously late, till four or five a.m. Some nights she didn’t go to bed at all, and this was one of them. At three o’clock, she’d opened a can of beer and left it on the coffee table; it was still there, half full. Taking a sip, she made an ugly face as a timer went off in the kitchen, sending a jet of cold water through the coffee percolator. Bored, she retrieved the TV remote and flashed the screen on and off. The newscaster was still going on about the trial of Olden Field, which had kept the people of Crane City entertained for the past five weeks. Lydia herself had applauded the guilty verdict when it finally came down. Peace and closure, this was all she wanted.

In the pantry, she found a clay mug and rinsed it out in the sink. This was another new habit, one of her post-Steve affectations—letting the dirty dishes accumulate until all of the place settings were used up. This particular mug was a glazed ceramic with a fat gargoyle-handle that made it hard to hold. She turned it over and read an inscription carved with a toothpick:

THE SOUL-SPIRIT ‘CASSIDY’
PROTECTS AGAINST ILLNESS
AND FEAR
HE IS A GOOD SHAMAN

The percolator, still in the midst of its noisy cycle, spat hot coffee onto the counter as she poured herself a cup. Replacing the carafe, she tried lifting the mug but the handle was too awkward and the whole thing fell and cracked against the sink. The gargoyle itself did not break, just stared up at her with a skeletal grin, a puddle of steaming coffee making a devil’s breath around its horny head. Outraged by the arrogance of this ridiculous mug, she seized the gargoyle and hurled it across the room, where it broke into fragments against the kitchen table. Disgusted, she pulled a dirty mug out of the dishwasher and filled it with more coffee from the carafe. It was 6:58 in the morning. She hoped she could make it through the day in one piece.

Finishing her coffee, she threw a robe over her clothes and stepped into her shoes. The robe had been strewn across two chairs like a painter’s tarp, and indeed the whole house looked dusty and disheveled, with dining chairs tipped over in the hallway and half-empty wineglasses sitting on the floor where she’d fallen asleep. This was Lydia’s month off; she deserved a little break, some time away from her adult self. Steve didn’t appreciate the mess, and he’d complained about it when he’d stopped by to reclaim toiletries earlier in the week.

(“You’re not to touch that, Steve.”

“What the heck are you talking about? I’m just trying to find my shaving kit!”

“You’re not to touch the mirror, Steve. That was the choice you made when you—”

“When I what?”

“That was your choice. And now this is my house.”

“Lydia, my shaving kit is inside the medicine cabinet. All I want to do is . . . If it offends you so much . . .”

“You’re not to touch the mirror, Steve. If you touch it, I will call the police and you will never see your son again.”

“Oh, that’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous. Technically, you don’t even belong here. Technically, you shouldn’t even be on the property. You should be hovering an inch off the ground, making no contact with any physical object whatso—”

“Well, how the heck am I supposed to get my shaving kit?”

“Come here. I will get you a pair of tongs.”)

Cold wind filled her robe as she slid open the screen door and went outside. The deer did not run off, just kept nosing around in its own excrement. At the edge of the yard, she turned and faced the house. Simon’s bedroom window was a bright square of sunlight. In recent days, the boy had taken to staying inside all morning. That was okay, she felt; he needed his rest, too. It had not been a good year for either one of them. Over the past month, his behavior had turned increasingly erratic, for no reason she could understand. There was the separation, true—that would upset anyone, especially a child; but it didn’t explain the odd conversations, the empty stares, the daily regressions. Eleven years old, Simon sometimes acted three.

(“Stop looking at the chandelier, darling.”

“It looks like bugs.”

“It does not look like bugs, now finish your food—and don’t turn the plate. I put that plate there for a reason.”

“I hate it.”

“You hate what—the food or the plate?”

“Both.”

“You don’t like Christian Dior?”

“Not a lot.”

Lydia bit into her fish. She chewed with her mouth open. “Well, I’ve got news for you, kiddo. Those plates—when I’m dead and gone, those plates—when you get married, those plates—”

“This tastes like bricks.”

“It does not, it was very expensive and it took a long time to prepare.”

“I ate a brick once.”

“Somehow I’m not sur—”

“Mommy?”

“Yes? Watch your sleeve.”

“What’s a chair?”

“What’s a chair, what do you mean what’s a chair?”

“Heh-heh. Answer.”

“You’re sitting on one.”

“Chair! Chair! Chair!”)

Peering up at his window, she thought about the next few years. Simon was nearly a teenager now; calmly, she wondered if the boy jerked off. Brass trophies stood on the window-ledge: #1 SON, WORLD’S GREATEST KID—die-cast figurines of Grecian athletes dressed in loin-cloths, $4.99 a pop. Simon vaguely resembled the figures on the top of each pedestal, just a little less developed in the chest and abs. Give him some time. And then what? Another child, perhaps. Simon was a good kid—handsome, with nice teeth and photogenic eyebrows—but Steve was his father, half of his life-blood, and she longed to go inside and remove all of the bad bits, the black and ugly remnants. She cherished the Lydia part of her boy, only that.

(“Here, baby, I saved you the soap.”

“Oh, wow.”

“Brand-new.”

“It’s heavy.”

“I just took it out of the package.”

“Smells!”

“Good, hunh?”

“Like magic creatures.”

“That’s ’cause it’s extra special.”

“Heck yeah.”

“Have a nice bath.”

“Thanks!”

“Don’t walk on the carpet.”)

Near the driveway, she loosened her robe and undid the top few buttons of her blouse. Her breasts surprised her; they looked super-huge, pornographic. She’d never breast-fed her child; the thought of it made her feel like a beast of burden, all rough teats and nipples. In recent years, she’d regarded her breasts as little more than a minor annoyance. Even so, it felt good standing in the backyard with the wind flapping against her skin, and she found herself undoing another button, then another, all the way down to the bottom. The linen tips swung apart and her stomach instinctively tightened as the cool air swept across her chest. A strange desire to make love turned in midair like a fancy bird, then flew away. Outside, her body felt different, and she wanted to take everything off, her suit, her skirt and shoes. Half-naked, she wondered what she looked like from a distance.

Simon screamed.

Closing her blouse, she ran inside and hurried up the steps. Simon was convulsing in bed, the sheets cast aside, a splatch of foamy blood covering his upper lip as his legs slapped against the mattress. His eyes were wide open, and his little bald penis was hard and red; a stream of marbled fluid shot from the tip, some striking his stomach but most of it landing on the sheets between his legs. The room lurched as she picked up the phone, remembered the number and dialed.

“EMS.”

“Yes, there’s something wrong with my son. He’s bleeding.
Was
bleeding. He’s not bleeding now.”

“This is a medical emergency?”

“
Yes
, I—I can’t talk. I can’t—”

Distracted, she stared at the puddle in the middle of the bed, thick and cloudy with sperm. Leaning closer, she touched it, dragging a bead, the stain forming little wrinkles that trailed like a mass of parentheses, then stretched and snapped. She flinched, drawing away as the dispatcher repeated her last question. Breathless, she hung up the phone and waited for the medics to arrive. The nearest hospital was three miles south on the expressway. She and Steve had driven there once when he’d insisted that he was having a heart attack, but when they arrived, a dubious nurse told them to wait in the lobby, and so he picked up a copy of
Hi-Tech Fisherman
and began leafing through the pages, glancing occasionally at a caption or a sidebar, and Lydia snapped,
If you’re having a heart attack, why are you reading the magazine?
and Steve said,
Fine, I won’t read it then!
and angrily tossed it back onto the table, his face screwed up in a childish pout. Remembering Steve’s face, she looked at her son; it sickened her, the idea that she’d once made love to his father, that together they’d produced this compromise, this disappointment. Shamed, she brought her hand to her chin. Simon lay still, breathing softly, thorns of dark blood clustering around his nose and mouth. His lips moved in a way that suggested a limited degree of awareness.

The medics let themselves in through the front door and tramped upstairs, carrying a stretcher and a fire-retardant blanket. There were three of them, two men and a woman. The woman was black and rotund, with dark whippy hair that seemed drawn on, like a cartoon character’s. Her partners both were strong and tall, a good-looking pair. The woman examined the naked boy as the men hefted him onto a stretcher and moved down the hall. Lydia followed, stopping at the top of the stairs. One of the men called up to her: “Would you like a brochure?”

“Brochure?”

“About your son’s illness.”

She looked down at Simon, who was now mashing his tongue against his upper lip, tasting the blood. “What’s wrong with him?”

Bracing the stretcher, the medic reached inside his jumper and pulled out a shiny leaflet. “It’s just a general brochure.”

“Oh, right.”

“It’s not about any one—”

“I get it.” She took the brochure and thanked him. “I’ll be right there. Just let me grab my cell phone.”

The medics proceeded downstairs; the sound of unfamiliar activity filled the house, dimming as the front door opened and closed. Fetching her purse, Lydia started to follow, but a new thought occurred to her, and she turned and went back to her son’s room. The splotch of semen had not yet dried, and it trembled when she sat at the foot of the bed. Cautiously at first, she held her hand over the stain, not touching it, feeling only the vague warmth of thermal energy, ions fading in the air. Great possibilities revolved in her brain, and she saw a purer version of herself—not perfect, no, but close, a three-quarter clone. Curious, she cupped her fingers around the thick, viscous fluid and imagined busy sperm-heads butting up against her skin, insane with a need to break through. A soft whisper grew inside her head. From afar, a new market beckoned. Beauty pageants were never an option for the boy—but for a Lydia Junior, perhaps!

Raising her dress, she pulled her underpants aside and held her labia apart with her middle and index fingers. Gently, she guided her wet hand between her legs. The walls of her vagina stretched as hot liquid formed a pool near the base of her cervix. A weird shudder ran through her body. Electric! Gooey inside, she sat up straight and crossed her legs. With this seed, she would start again.