Read Online The Godwhale (S.F. Masterworks) by T. J. Bass - Free Book Online
Authors: T. J. Bass
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light screen. The eye buds were stimulated into early and redundant growth.
The Psychteck focused his battery of desk sensors on the waiting patient to monitor her Fine Body Movements. She sat up straight, rigid, on the edge of her chair, wringing her hands. Her eyes were darting around the waiting room, fixing on this object, then that. Her hair was stringy and black, frequently finger-combed and pushed back. Fine Body Movements increased steadily. The Psychokinetoscope gave a clear warning.
‘FBMs are increasing,’ said the teck, leaning towards his Com Screen and whispering, ‘Where is that therapeutic infant? We’d better make a mother of this one quickly or it’ll be drugs for her.’
The screen flickered from terminal to terminal as it searched for Bo. It finally focused on him at the Chute, where he was sorting through a variety of limp infants.
‘Find one?’
Bo shook his head. ‘Just some weak premies. None that looks strong enough to live out the week.’
‘Well, bring one up anyway. Even if it only survives for a couple of days it’ll get us over this crisis.’
Bo picked one up at random. It died. He set it back on the moving belt and fingered others. All were cooling. None would fool even a muddled hebephrenic. The high belts around him carried hazy bottle-jars that had just been emptied. A cleanup crew stood at their stations with brushes and steam nozzles. At their feet lay a heap of debris – placental and fetal – just so much surplus protein for the robot sweeper.
Something moved in the debris!
Bo rushed over to see the welcome face of a gargoyle – ugly – trying to push its way out of the cold wetness. He picked up the muscular form, already hunchbacked from trying to hide its embryonic eyes from the excessive light in its bottle-jar. He rinsed and wrapped it, glancing around for the department supervisor to make his explanations. No one focused on him.
Bohart found the female patient speaking into a Com Screen, punctuating her loud, rapid speech with giggles and hand gestures. He composed his face for the occasion and called her over to see the bundle asleep on his shoulder.
‘Clover?’
She toggled off and turned towards him. ‘Yes?’
‘I have your little ward – baby Harlan.’
Her mood sobered. Trauma-anxiety lines melted from her haggard face.
‘He needs you,’ said Bo.
She took the bundle and clutched it to her breast with firm tenderness – unconsciously increasing the force – trying to squeeze a little security out of the reality of the tiny life. As the pressure increased the gargoyle’s eyes opened silently – stoically – the behaviour pattern that would typify his life. At least this mother-figure was warm.
Bohart mumbled routine instructions, using his best teck monotone – lulling her into the routine of the therapeutic pseudoadoption. She left with a smile, the bug-eyed infant staring back over her shoulder.
‘How did it go?’ asked Bo, glancing at the scope.
‘Fine.’ The tech smiled. ‘FBMs decreased the moment you came into the room. I guess we saved her from the shaft floor. How long can she keep Harlan?’
Bo shrugged. ‘He came from the slush pile, so he was not pitted or trimmed.’
‘Not certified for life?’
‘No,’ said Bo. ‘They just aren’t letting anyone through with five toes or an intact pituitary anymore. The Chucker Team will be looking for him someday.’
‘Baby Harlan has about a year,’ speculated the Psychteck. ‘Well, that’s an improvement over the slush pile, I guess.’
‘I guess.’ Bo shrugged.
Clover enjoyed her role as surrogate mother. She took her lactogenic agents faithfully and kept baby Harlan on her breast most of the time. He lived off his stored fat until colostrum came in on the third day. He grew rapidly. With his visual cortex already functioning, it set the pace for the rest of his neuromuscular development. He crawled about the cubicle, probing with his hands those dark recesses
The Psychteck focused his battery of desk sensors on the waiting patient to monitor her Fine Body Movements. She sat up straight, rigid, on the edge of her chair, wringing her hands. Her eyes were darting around the waiting room, fixing on this object, then that. Her hair was stringy and black, frequently finger-combed and pushed back. Fine Body Movements increased steadily. The Psychokinetoscope gave a clear warning.
‘FBMs are increasing,’ said the teck, leaning towards his Com Screen and whispering, ‘Where is that therapeutic infant? We’d better make a mother of this one quickly or it’ll be drugs for her.’
The screen flickered from terminal to terminal as it searched for Bo. It finally focused on him at the Chute, where he was sorting through a variety of limp infants.
‘Find one?’
Bo shook his head. ‘Just some weak premies. None that looks strong enough to live out the week.’
‘Well, bring one up anyway. Even if it only survives for a couple of days it’ll get us over this crisis.’
Bo picked one up at random. It died. He set it back on the moving belt and fingered others. All were cooling. None would fool even a muddled hebephrenic. The high belts around him carried hazy bottle-jars that had just been emptied. A cleanup crew stood at their stations with brushes and steam nozzles. At their feet lay a heap of debris – placental and fetal – just so much surplus protein for the robot sweeper.
Something moved in the debris!
Bo rushed over to see the welcome face of a gargoyle – ugly – trying to push its way out of the cold wetness. He picked up the muscular form, already hunchbacked from trying to hide its embryonic eyes from the excessive light in its bottle-jar. He rinsed and wrapped it, glancing around for the department supervisor to make his explanations. No one focused on him.
Bohart found the female patient speaking into a Com Screen, punctuating her loud, rapid speech with giggles and hand gestures. He composed his face for the occasion and called her over to see the bundle asleep on his shoulder.
‘Clover?’
She toggled off and turned towards him. ‘Yes?’
‘I have your little ward – baby Harlan.’
Her mood sobered. Trauma-anxiety lines melted from her haggard face.
‘He needs you,’ said Bo.
She took the bundle and clutched it to her breast with firm tenderness – unconsciously increasing the force – trying to squeeze a little security out of the reality of the tiny life. As the pressure increased the gargoyle’s eyes opened silently – stoically – the behaviour pattern that would typify his life. At least this mother-figure was warm.
Bohart mumbled routine instructions, using his best teck monotone – lulling her into the routine of the therapeutic pseudoadoption. She left with a smile, the bug-eyed infant staring back over her shoulder.
‘How did it go?’ asked Bo, glancing at the scope.
‘Fine.’ The tech smiled. ‘FBMs decreased the moment you came into the room. I guess we saved her from the shaft floor. How long can she keep Harlan?’
Bo shrugged. ‘He came from the slush pile, so he was not pitted or trimmed.’
‘Not certified for life?’
‘No,’ said Bo. ‘They just aren’t letting anyone through with five toes or an intact pituitary anymore. The Chucker Team will be looking for him someday.’
‘Baby Harlan has about a year,’ speculated the Psychteck. ‘Well, that’s an improvement over the slush pile, I guess.’
‘I guess.’ Bo shrugged.
Clover enjoyed her role as surrogate mother. She took her lactogenic agents faithfully and kept baby Harlan on her breast most of the time. He lived off his stored fat until colostrum came in on the third day. He grew rapidly. With his visual cortex already functioning, it set the pace for the rest of his neuromuscular development. He crawled about the cubicle, probing with his hands those dark recesses
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