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novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
BEAKER’S DOZEN
Copyright © 1998 by Nancy Kress
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kress, Nancy.
Beaker’s dozen / Nancy Kress.—1st ed.
p. cm.
“A Tom Doherty Associates book.”
ISBN 0-312-86537-6 (acid-free paper)
I. Title.
PS3561.R46B36 1998
813’.54—dc21 98-11579
CIP
First Edition: August 1998
Printed in the United States of America
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Beaker’s Dozen
Nancy Kress
Acknowledgments
Introduction
BEAKER’S DOZEN
BEGGARS IN SPAIN
FEIGENBAUM NUMBER
MARGIN OF ERROR
FAULT LINES
UNTO THE DAUGHTERS
EVOLUTION
ARS LONGA
SEX EDUCATION
GRANT US THIS DAY
FLOWERS OF AULIT PRISON
SUMMER WIND
ALWAYS TRUE TO THEE, IN MY FASHION
DANCING ON AIR
“Always True to Thee, In My Fashion” first appeared in Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, January 1997
“Ars Longa” first appeared in By Any Other Fame, ed. Mike Resnick and Martin H. Greenberg, DAW, 1994 “Beggars in Spain” first appeared in Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, April 1991. Simultaneous appearance: Axolotl Press
“Dancing on Air” first appeared in Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, July 1993
“Evolution” first appeared in Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, October 1995
“Fault Lines” first appeared in Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, August 1995
“Feigenbaum Number” first appeared in Omni, December 1995
“Flowers of Aulit Prison” Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, October/November 1996
“Grant Us This Day” Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, September 1993
“Margin of Error” first appeared in Omni, October 1994
“Sex Education” first appeared in Intersections: The Sycamore Hill Anthology, eds. John Kessel, Mark L. van Name, and Richard Butner, Tor, 1996
“Summer Wind” first appeared in Ruby Slippers, Golden Tears, eds. Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling, Avon, 1995
“Unto the Daughters” first appeared in Sisters in Fantasy, eds. Susan Shwartz and Martin H. Greenberg, Roc, 1995
INTRODUCTION
There’s always something slightly embarrassing about writing an introduction to one’s own short stories: What does one write? Received wisdom says—correctly—that the stories should speak for themselves. Modesty says—also correctly—that one cannot write “This author is terrific!” Prudence says that one should not announce that now, in the time that has passed since their writing, all the stories’ flaws have become glaringly obvious to the author, who sits wondering why she didn’t strong-arm a friend into writing the introduction in her place.
But, in this case, I actually do have something I want to say. Not directly about the stories, which should speak for themselves (see above), but about the context in which they were written. That context is the last decade of the twentieth century, when strange and wondrous things are happening in science labs around the world.
Scientists in Scotland clone a sheep from an adult cell.
Researchers decipher the entire DNA sequence, every last gene, used by the bacterium Escherichia coli.
Pharming—the practice of genetically engineering animals to produce pharmaceuticals for human use—becomes a burgeoning industry.
A research group in Japan discovers that large fragments of human chromosomes, with up to one thousand genes, can be incorporated into the mouse genome.
Human genes are identified for many inheritable tendencies, including breast cancer.
The twenty-first century, it’s often remarked, will transform our knowledge of biology in the same way that the twentieth century transformed physics. With knowledge, of course, comes application. And with the application of all we are learning about genetic engineering come social and ethical questions, some of them knotty.
This is where science fiction enters, stage left. Scientific laboratories are where the new technologies are rehearsed. Science fiction rehearses the implications of those technologies. What might we eventually do with our newfound power? Should we do it? Who should do it? Who will be affected? How? Is that a good thing or not? For whom?
Of the thirteen stories in this book, eight are concerned with what might come out of the beakers and test tubes and gene sequencers of microbiology. Not everything in these stories will come to pass. Possibly nothing in them will; fiction is not prediction. But I hope the stories at least will raise questions about the world rushing in on us at the speed—not of light—but of thought.
And, oh yeah . . . I hope you enjoy reading the stories as well. Without that, there’s really no point, is there? But you’ll be the sole, best judge of that.
—Nancy Kress
March 29, 1998
BEGGARS IN SPAIN
This story represents several milestones in my career as a writer. It was the first story I wrote after I left my job as a corporate copywriter in order to write fiction full-time. It won my first (and only) Hugo. More substantially, it represents the first of many stories concerned with the possibilities of genetic engineering.
Of the thirteen stories in this book, six are primarily about genetic engineering: five as applied to people and one as applied to bacteria. In addition, another three stories deal with the effects on the human mind of designer drugs, pharmaceuticals created from the DNA level up. Clearly what we have here is an obsession.
Why? I don’t know. The introduction to this collection states that it’s because the coming century is going to be the Century of Microbiology, in which the scientific breakthroughs in that field will equal those of physics in the twentieth century. That is true, but I didn’t write “Beggars in Spain” because of that truth. Although I’m fascinated by microbiology, this story was written not from intellectual fascination but from a much simpler and older emotion: envy. I need at least eight hours of sleep a night, preferably nine, and I resent it quite a bit. The Sleepless need none. I wish I could have had the genetic engineering that went into creating Leisha, and so have claimed it the only way writers can: on paper.
With energy and sleepless vigilance go forward and give us victories.
—Abraham Lincoln, to Major General Joseph Hooker, 1863
One
They sat stiffly on his antique Eames chairs, two people who didn’t want to be here, or one person who didn’t want to and one who resented the other’s reluctance. Dr. Ong had seen this before. Wit
hin two minutes he was sure: the woman was the silently furious resister. She would lose. The man would pay for it later, in little ways, for a long time.
“I presume you’ve performed the necessary credit checks already,” Roger Camden said pleasantly, “so let’s get right on to details, shall we, Doctor?”
“Certainly,” Ong said. “Why don’t we start by your telling me all the genetic modifications you’re interested in for the baby.”
The woman shifted suddenly on her chair. She was in her late twenties—clearly a second wife—but already had a faded look, as if keeping up with Roger Camden was wearing her out. Ong could easily believe that. Mrs. Camden’s hair was brown, her eyes were brown, her skin had a brown tinge that might have been pretty if her cheeks had had any color. She wore a brown coat, neither fashionable nor cheap, and shoes that looked vaguely orthopedic. Ong glanced at his records for her name: Elizabeth. He would bet people forgot it often.
Next to her, Roger Camden radiated nervous vitality, a man in late middle age whose bullet-shaped head did not match his careful haircut and Italian-silk business suit. Ong did not need to consult his file to recall anything about Camden. A caricature of the bullet-shaped head had been the leading graphic of yesterday’s on-line edition of the Wall Street Journal: Camden had led a major coup in cross-border data-atoll investment. Ong was not sure what cross-border data-atoll investment was.
“A girl,” Elizabeth Camden said. Ong hadn’t expected her to speak first. Her voice was another surprise: upper-class British. “Blonde. Green eyes. Tall. Slender.”
Ong smiled. “Appearance factors are the easiest to achieve, as I’m sure you already know. But all we can do about ‘slenderness’ is give her a genetic disposition in that direction. How you feed the child will naturally—”
“Yes, yes,” Roger Camden said, “that’s obvious. Now: intelligence. High intelligence. And a sense of daring.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Camden—personality factors are not yet understood well enough to allow genet—”
“Just testing,” Camden said, with a smile that Ong thought was probably supposed to be light-hearted.
Elizabeth Camden said, “Musical ability.”
“Again, Mrs. Camden, a disposition to be musical is all we can guarantee.”
“Good enough,” Camden said. “The full array of corrections for any potential gene-linked health problem, of course.”
“Of course,” Dr. Ong said. Neither client spoke. So far theirs was a fairly modest list, given Camden’s money; most clients had to be argued out of contradictory genetic tendencies, alteration overload, or unrealistic expectations. Ong waited. Tension prickled in the room like heat.
“And,” Camden said, “no need to sleep.”
Elizabeth Camden jerked her head sideways to look out the window.
Ong picked a paper magnet off his desk. He made his voice pleasant. “May I ask how you learned whether that genetic-modification program exists?”
Camden grinned. “You’re not denying it exists. I give you full credit for that, Doctor.”
Ong held onto his temper. “May I ask how you learned whether the program exists?”
Camden reached into an inner pocket of his suit. The silk crinkled and pulled; body and suit came from different social classes. Camden was, Ong remembered, a Yagaiist, a personal friend of Kenzo Yagai himself. Camden handed Ong hard copy: program specifications.
“Don’t bother hunting down the security leak in your data banks, Doctor—you won’t find it. But if it’s any consolation, neither will anybody else. Now.” He leaned suddenly forward. His tone changed. “I know that you’ve created twenty children so far who don’t need to sleep at all. That so far nineteen are healthy, intelligent, and psychologically normal. In fact, better than normal—they’re all unusually precocious. The oldest is already four years old and can read in two languages. I know you’re thinking of offering this genetic modification on the open market in a few years. All I want is a chance to buy it for my daughter now. At whatever price you name.”
Ong stood. “I can’t possibly discuss this with you unilaterally, Mr. Camden. Neither the theft of our data—”
“Which wasn’t a theft—your system developed a spontaneous bubble regurgitation into a public gate, have a hell of a time proving otherwise—”
“—nor the offer to purchase this particular genetic modification lies in my sole area of authority. Both have to be discussed with the Institute’s Board of Directors.”
“By all means, by all means. When can I talk to them, too?”
“You?”
Camden, still seated, looked at him. It occurred to Ong that there were few men who could look so confident eighteen inches below eye level. “Certainly. I’d like the chance to present my offer to whoever has the actual authority to accept it. That’s only good business.”
“This isn’t solely a business transaction, Mr. Camden.”
“It isn’t solely pure scientific research, either,” Camden retorted. “You’re a for-profit corporation here. With certain tax breaks available only to firms meeting certain fair-practice laws.”
For a minute Ong couldn’t think what Camden meant. “Fair-practice laws . . .”
“ . . . are designed to protect minorities who are suppliers. I know, it hasn’t ever been tested in the case of customers, except for red-lining in Y-energy installations. But it could be tested, Doctor Ong. Minorities are entitled to the same product offerings as non-minorities. I know the Institute would not welcome a court case, Doctor. None of your twenty genetic beta-test families are either Black or Jewish.”
“A court . . . but you’re not Black or Jewish!”
“I’m a different minority. Polish-American. The name was Kaminsky.” Camden finally stood. And smiled warmly. “Look, it is preposterous. You know that, and I know that, and we both know what a grand time journalists would have with it anyway. And you know that I don’t want to sue you with a preposterous case, just to use the threat of premature and adverse publicity to get what I want. I don’t want to make threats at all, believe me I don’t. I just want this marvelous advancement you’ve come up with for my daughter.” His face changed, to an expression Ong wouldn’t have believed possible on those particular features: wistfulness. “Doctor—do you know how much more I could have accomplished if I hadn’t had to sleep all my life?”
Elizabeth Camden said harshly, “You hardly sleep now.”
Camden looked down at her as if he had forgotten she was there. “Well, no, my dear, not now. But when I was young . . . college, I might have been able to finish college and still support . . . well. None of that matters now. What matters, Doctor, is that you and I and your board come to an agreement.”
“Mr. Camden, please leave my office now.”
“You mean before you lose your temper at my presumptuousness? You wouldn’t be the first. I’ll expect to have a meeting set up by the end of next week, whenever and wherever you say, of course. Just let my personal secretary, Diane Clavers, know the details. Anytime that’s best for you.”
Ong did not accompany them to the door. Pressure throbbed behind his temples. In the doorway Elizabeth Camden turned. “What happened to the twentieth one?”
“What?”
“The twentieth baby. My husband said nineteen of them are healthy and normal. What happened to the twentieth?”
The pressure grew stronger, hotter. Ong knew that he should not answer; that Camden probably already knew the answer even if his wife didn’t; that he, Ong, was going to answer anyway; that he would regret the lack of self-control, bitterly, later.
“The twentieth baby is dead. His parents turned out to be unstable. They separated during the pregnancy, and his mother could not bear the twenty-four-hour crying of a baby who never sleeps.”
Elizabeth Camden’s eyes widened. “She killed it?”
“By mistake,” Camden said shortly. “Shook the little thing too hard.” He frowned at Ong. “Nurses, Doctor. In shi
fts. You should have picked only parents wealthy enough to afford nurses in shifts.”
“That’s horrible!” Mrs. Camden burst out, and Ong could not tell if she meant the child’s death, the lack of nurses, or the Institute’s carelessness. Ong closed his eyes.
When they had gone, he took ten milligrams of cyclobenzaprine-III. For his back—it was solely for his back. The old injury hurting again. Afterward he stood for a long time at the window, still holding the paper magnet, feeling the pressure recede from his temples, feeling himself calm down. Below him Lake Michigan lapped peacefully at the shore; the police had driven away the homeless in another raid just last night, and they hadn’t yet had time to return. Only their debris remained, thrown into the bushes of the lakeshore park: tattered blankets, newspapers, plastic bags like pathetic trampled standards. It was illegal to sleep in the park, illegal to enter it without a resident’s permit, illegal to be homeless and without a residence. As Ong watched, uniformed park attendants began methodically spearing newspapers and shoving them into clean self-propelled receptacles.
Ong picked up the phone to call the president of Biotech Institute’s Board of Directors.
Four men and three women sat around the polished mahogany table of the conference room. Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief, thought Susan Melling, looking from Ong to Sullivan to Camden. She smiled. Ong caught the smile and looked frosty. Pompous ass. Judy Sullivan, the Institute lawyer, turned to speak in a low voice to Camden’s lawyer, a thin, nervous man with the look of being owned. The owner, Roger Camden, the Indian chief himself, was the happiest-looking person in the room. The lethal little man—what did it take to become that rich, starting from nothing? She, Susan, would certainly never know—radiated excitement. He beamed, he glowed, so unlike the usual parents-to-be that Susan was intrigued. Usually the prospective daddies and mommies—especially the daddies—sat there looking as if they were at a corporate merger. Camden looked as if he were at a birthday party.