Designer Genes. Brian Stableford
not time.”
“He didn’t have much last time,” Rick answered, apologetically, “and he burped some of that back again.” He realized even as he spoke that there just might be a sinister implication in what he was saying. “Oh pollution,” he said, softly. “I can’t just put him back in the nook, can I? Not if the nursery’s sick. What can I do, Rosie?”
“Take him to the dining-room,” said Rosa. “The main system can mix baby-milk just as well as the nursery-nook.”
“But it hasn’t got a teat!” Rick protested. “I can’t feed him with a spoon, can I?”
“Get the dispenser to mould one out of soft plastic,” she said. “There must be a program for it somewhere in the library. One that fits on to a bottle. It’s a bit twenty-first century, but it’s bound to work.”
“He won’t like it,” said Rick, mournfully.
“It’s not good for him to get bogged down in a routine of comforts,” said Rosa, sternly. Because she did so much work in primary ed she considered herself the household expert on child-rearing, although she was very particular about not doing more than her fair share of caring. “He needs a bit of innovation and improvisation occasionally—especially at the elementary level.
Steven had by now begun to amplify his whimpers, and was getting set for a full-scale bawl. Rick hurried away with him, hoping that he could find the requisite program, and that the dispenser could deliver the goods in time to save his ears from too much torture.
* * * *
“There have been some developments, I’m afraid,” said the doctor mournfully, when she arrived at the house. “The lab has completed the scan of the rose’s dr-DNA and the extraneous matter in the bathwater. It all looks a bit iffy. I’ve had to call in some help, but you mustn’t worry. We’ve caught the problem early, and it’s just a matter of backtracking to figure out how it started. When the other people arrive, we’re going to have to seal off the nursery for a while and usurp control of the house’s main systems. You’ll have to wind down any work you’re doing, and you might experience some localized control problems, but everything will be all right and with luck we’ll be out of here in a matter of hours. Don’t worry.”
The last piece of advice was difficult to follow, and it became even more difficult when the first of Dr. Jauregy’s “other people” arrived. His name was Ituro Morusaki and his ID declared him to be an officer of the International Bureau of Investigation. “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” he said, breezily. “But we have to take precautions, whenever there’s a possibility that a crime might have been committed.”
“What crime?” asked Rick.
“Any crime,” answered the IBI man, unhelpfully.
“You mean software sabotage, don’t you?” said Rosa, with a keen edge of anxiety in her voice. “You think we’re the victim of a terrorist attack! But why us? What have we ever done to anyone?”
Officer Morusaki put up his hands defensively. “No, no!” he said. “We mustn’t jump to any conclusions. We simply don’t know what we’re dealing with, and it could be anything. Please don’t worry.”
He didn’t hang around to be questioned any further. He disappeared into the nursery, to confer with Dr. Jauregy.
By this time Dieter and Chloe had been alerted to the fact that something was seriously amiss, and they had joined Rick and Rosa in the main common-room.
“Well,” said Chloe, “I’m squeaky clean, greenwise. What did you get up to in Africa, Dieter?”
“Helping to reclaim the Kalahari desert is hardly an eco-crime,” Dieter countered, testily. “The Gaians can’t possibly have anything against me. What are Don and Nicola doing down in Amazonia? That’s the Gaians’ number one area of concern, isn’t it? Maybe they’ve done something to piss off Mother Earth’s Avengers.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Rosa told them both. “They’re only techs, not planners. Gaians don’t send electronic mail-bombs to the likes of us.”
Steven wasn’t at all happy with the bottle that Rick was trying—inexpertly—to force into his mouth. There was something about the teat that he didn’t like, in spite of the fact that he was hungry. His face was red and his eyes were screwed up tight and he was mewling pitifully. It wasn’t a full-blown tantrum yet, but it was going on that way. Rick gritted his teeth and tried to be patient, yet firm.
“Do it gently,” Chloe advised. “You’re upsetting him. We all have to keep calm, for his sake.”
“I heard about some practical joker who used a random-number generator to send copies of a spoiler virus through the net,” said Dieter. “Maybe that’s what happened—maybe our number just got thrown up at random.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Rosa. “This isn’t something that flashes silly messages on our screens—it’s something that’s sabotaging our nursery. What kind of joker would do a thing like that?”
Steven, clearly despairing of half-measures, began to yell. He hadn’t yet begun to strike the secret note, but Rick could tell that the gathering crescendo was heading in that direction
“Oh, come on, Rick!” Dieter complained. “Can’t you at least keep him quiet, so we can think about this. This is important!”
Rick abandoned the bottle and tried to jolly Steven out of the crying fit by bouncing him around a bit. He knew that it wasn’t going to work, but at least it demonstrated to the others that he was trying. Silently, he willed the baby to be quiet, but the power of positive thinking that he was trying to exercise kept getting interrupted by silent pleas and curses.
“Wrap him up,” said Rosa. “He’s not in the nursery now and the ambient temperature’s too low for him—find him something soft and warm and comforting, then try the bottle again.”
The torrent of advice did nothing to soothe Rick’s temper; it only made him more aggrieved. But the one thing he couldn’t do was to hand Steven over to someone else and say, “You take care of the little brat.” That would really call down the wrath of Heaven upon him.
The lar informed them that someone else was at the door, and Rosa went to let in the second of Dr. Jauregy’s expected helpers. His name was Lionel Murgatroyd, and his ID informed them that he was with the Ministry of Defense.
“The Ministry of Defense!” said Dieter, incredulously. “What is this—World War Five?”
“No, no, no,” Mr. Murgatroyd assured them. “It’s nothing to worry about—nothing at all. A routine notification under the rather-be-safe policy. Please don’t let your imagination run away with you. It’s just that where novel DNA is concerned, especially when it seems to be a bit on the nasty side, we have to be extremely careful.”
They didn’t have time to ask Mr. Murgatroyd any more questions, because he was seized by Officer Morusaki and hauled into the nursery.
“We have to seal everything up now,” said Morusaki cheerfully, as he prepared to close the door behind him. “We’re taking control of all the house’s systems except for the fundamental subroutines, so you won’t be able to phone out or call up data from the net. You might experience some slight problems while we’re running tests, but please be patient.”
The nursery door closed behind him, and the four householders exchanged helpless looks. Nobody wanted to start asking accusative questions about who might or might not have got the house a front-line posting in the next Plague War. The thought was too preposterous to entertain.
Steven was still bawling, despite the fact that Rick—following Rosa’s suggestion—had managed to summon up a warm and soft ultrawoolly shawl. Rick tried unsuccessfully to persuade the baby to accept the makeshift teat, but Steven obviously wanted the nursery nook and wasn’t prepared to accept any second-rate substitutes—not, at least,