RIVAL OF MARS by David Walton

New conditions create new opportunities and new necessities, but that doesn’t mean the choice gets easier.

I didn’t realize Angie was pregnant until she started to show. We lay touching and teasing in bed together, late on a Friday evening, when I noticed something different. A bulge. It was only visible because she was so thin: a gentle swelling that hadn’t been there a week before. Suddenly, the idea that Angie was a mother became a startling reality.

“It’s my job,” she said. “You knew that.”

I knew. I think we all know things we don’t believe until we see them. At the time, all I could think was that something lived inside that bulge, growing and moving and feeding.

“Does it bother you?” she asked.

I looked away. “No, of course not.”

“It’s a natural process. Mothers have been doing it for millennia.”

I couldn’t keep my eyes off her belly. Birth control was mandatory in those days—the pleasure drug craze of our parents’ generation had resulted in so many birth defects that the government had taken control. Only one in a hundred women could make motherhood a career, and even the licensed guardians who hired them placed their orders through an agency, rarely meeting the gestational mother. The only mother I’d known before Angie had been a sagging veteran of twenty births, and I was having trouble reconciling my mental stereotype with the reality snuggled in my bed. I wanted to talk about it, but I didn’t know what to say.

“How do you feel?” I hazarded.

“I feel fine.”

“How long until it’s born?”

“She’s about sixteen weeks along, but I tend to go late, so probably not for another twenty-five. Early August.”

I groped into the dark, cluttered bag of my knowledge about pregnancy. “I thought pregnancy made women not want to…” I looked at the bed, then back at her.

“Sometimes,” she said. “And sometimes it makes them randy as rabbits.” She said it in that matter-of-fact, business-like tone she always used, but her eyes twinkled.

I reached into the bag again, and came up empty. “So … what happens now?”

She leaned in close. “Right now? We make love.”

Angie was twenty-six when I met her, with three births under her belt and a figure like a holostar. She did calisthenics, yoga, weight toning, kung fu, dance, and tai chi. She was the fittest, funniest, fieriest woman I’d ever met.

I didn’t give her career much thought. I was working as an aerospace engineer for a NASA subcontractor; we were building an Earth Return Vehicle for a manned mission to Mars. Motherhood, by contrast, seemed a cakewalk—only on the job nine months out of twelve, and plenty of free time even then. True, the actual childbirth was said to be a painful ordeal, but only for one day a year. How bad could it be? I thought it sounded like a fair price for 364 days of freedom.

That was before I met Angie.

One morning over breakfast, I said, “I hear labor’s not too bad. More like pressure than real pain.”

“Just pressure, sure,” she said. “Kind of like a hurricane is just wind.”

I laughed. “Okay, so it’s painful,” I said. I poured chocolate milk on my Berry Bombs. Then I noticed her breakfast. “What’s that?”

“A multi-grain muffin.”

“I can’t believe they make you eat that stuff.”

Angie rolled her eyes. “They don’t make me. I plan my own diet.”

“But you have to report what you eat to your clients, right?”

“It’s not a normal job, darling. What I eat affects the baby. How much I exercise, what medicines I take, even the music I listen to, it all makes a difference.”

I tried to imagine my company telling its employees what to eat or how much sleep to get.

Angie took a big bite of her muffin and chewed as if she really enjoyed it. She said, “I’m on an all-natural job, so it’s more restrictive. I can’t even use pain-killers.”

“What? Not even Tylenol?”

“Nope. Nobody’s ever connected Tylenol to fetal complications, but the ‘nothing artificial’ stamp is a big seller. Means more profit for the agency, and a better salary for me.”

“What about during labor? A … what’s it called…” I rubbed at the stubble on my chin, trying to remember the word.

“An epidural?”

“That’s it. Can you have one of those?”

“Not on this job. All natural, all the way.”

I made a face. “And that’s worth the extra money?”

“It’s not just the money. It’s painful, but it’s wonderful in a way, too. Creating new life—it’s a remarkable experience.”

“One of those things a guy can never understand?” I asked.

Angie just smiled.

I knew a challenge when I saw one. I’m an engineer; I don’t believe in problems with no solution. I determined to conquer the ancient female mystery of childbirth with the modern tools of research and investigation. While her belly grew, I hit the info sites. I learned terms like amniocentesis, alpha-fetoprotein, episiotomy, gestational diabetes, Braxton-Hicks contractions, and postpartum stress. I knew the difference between an embryo and a fetus, between gestational age and age from conception, and what milestones to anticipate in each trimester.

I still wasn’t prepared. I thought of the stages of pregnancy like the stages of a rocket launch, systematic and timed precisely. I had the timetable memorized. So I was taken aback when, a week too early, Angie grunted and placed both hands on her belly.

“Well, hello,” she said.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Fine. The baby just moved.”

“Already?”

“Definitely. This is going to be a feisty one. You’ll be able to feel it, too, before long.”

“I’m not sure I want to,” I said.

From then on, she took to grabbing my hand several times a day and holding it to her belly. “There,” she would say. “You felt that one, right?” I felt nothing but her belly, which was growing steadily larger. Finally, I told her I’d felt a movement so she’d stop trying.

“Isn’t it amazing?” she asked, eyes shining.

“Amazing,” I said. “Really, it’s remarkable.”

She didn’t stop trying. If anything, she did it more—every time she felt the baby move, she’d snatch my hands and want me to feel it, too. She’d even poke and prod her belly, trying to get the baby to kick.

“Should you really do that?” I asked.

“It doesn’t hurt.”

“At the zoo, they always tell you not to tap on the glass. Annoys the animals.”

“It’s not the same thing. The baby likes external interaction.”

“You can’t know what the baby likes.”

“Oh, and after my degrees in nursing and midwifery, Mr. Rocket Scientist is going to tell me what I know about this baby.” She threw my hand back at me and tucked in her shirt with a sniff.

Two weeks later, I did feel the baby move. We were sitting on our porch swing late one evening, watching the stars. I’d pointed out Venus to Angie, and named a few constellations. She sat leaning against me with her feet curled up beside her, holding my hand against her belly.

“Is that Mars?” she asked, pointing.

“No,” I said, “It’s a star. A red giant named Antares. You’re not the first one to make that mistake, though—the name ‘Antares’ means ‘Rival of Mars.’ It looks red because it’s running out of hydrogen, and the outer layers are expanding and cooling down.” I was about to explain the spectral classes of stars when the skin of her stomach moved. I jerked my hand away. It was so unexpected, I didn’t realize at first what had happened.

“Gotcha,” said Angie. “That was a big one.”

I’d expected to find the movement disturbing—the idea reminded me too much of those old movies where aliens grow inside human beings and then eat their way out. But it wasn’t disturbing. It was more like first contact—a communication from an unknown world. Something really was alive in there.

“I felt it,” I said. “I really did feel it.”

I put my hand back on the same spot, hoping to feel it again.

It wasn’t that I didn’t believe there was a baby before that moment, but I’m an engineer—I understand what I can see and touch. Feeling that kick moved the baby out of the realm of fantasy more than my web research ever did. I started wondering what it felt like to be curled inside such a small space, seeing nothing, hearing only Angie’s voice, jouncing and rolling as Angie moved. I wondered what part of the baby had just pushed out at me. A foot? A hand? An elbow? I pressed slightly with my fingers, and it moved again.

At twenty weeks, Angie went for her tomograph. This was back when aircars were new, and I’d bought one of the first models, a Dodge Elation. I insisted on chauffeuring Angie to her appointment. The car elevated smoothly on its cushion of air, glided forward, and we headed off to the birthing agency. In the parking lot, I purposely gunned the car over a speed bump, enjoying the complete absence of any jolt.

“Honestly,” said Angie, “you’re like a teenager in this thing. Let me out.”

The agency resembled a doctor’s office in most respects, though instead of talking to a receptionist, Angie slipped an ID card into a reader and walked to the imaging room herself. I followed, noting the high-res hologrid next to the examination bed. She lay down on the bed, crinkling the paper cover, and folded her hands over her growing abdomen. I sat on a tan swivel stool and watched her.

It occurred to me that getting pregnant wasn’t like getting fat. Her body was still trim and athletic, just with a sensual curve where one hadn’t been before. Besides, she glowed now. Her eyes radiated a vitality and love of life that the inconveniences of pregnancy didn’t dull. If anything, I was more attracted to her. I told myself it was an evolutionary throwback—attraction to fertile females being more likely to propagate the species—but I couldn’t wait for this appointment to be finished so I could get her back to my apartment. I didn’t realize that by the time we left, sex would be the furthest thing from my mind.

The technician arrived, chatty and cheerful. Dousing us in a constant patter of encouraging remarks, she wrapped a fat torus around Angie’s middle and fastened it with Velcro. “It uses acoustic waves, just like the old ultrasounds,” she said, “but the images are taken as a continuous series of slices. That way we can composite the whole three-dimensional image onto the hologrid.”

So saying, she activated the machine. A full-color 3D image leapt out of the grid and began rotating. I stared at it dumbly.

“The baby’s black?” I said.

I regretted the question instantly; the technician herself was black, and what was wrong with a black baby, anyway? It was just that for the first time, it hit me that this was somebody else’s baby. The result of the genetic coupling of two strangers, the legal offspring of someone completely unrelated to Angie or myself. Fortunately, the technician didn’t take my astonishment for racism.

“The color is artificial,” she admitted. “It’s dark in there, after all; we can’t get true color imagery. But the computer uses genetic information to influence its color choices. There’s no doubt this is an African-American child.”

The technician manipulated the image, examining the fetus from every angle. She pointed out healthy indicators to Angie in a jargon I didn’t understand. After checking the outside of the baby, she began to check the inside, slicing away grisly cross-sections to show bones and internal organs, including a living, beating heart. Angie was delighted. I felt a little ill.

“Hmm,” the technician said.

I heard the concern in her voice and looked back at the hologram. She had zoomed in quite close; I couldn’t even tell what part of the anatomy was being displayed.

“This is the spine,” she said, indicating a light-colored splotch. “These are vertebrae, here and here, and right there I see a gap. It looks like the spinal cord hasn’t closed.”

I looked at Angie and saw her alarm. “Spinal bifida?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Often with spinal bifida, there’s a protrusion from the back, and there’s nothing like that here. Just this gap.”

“But my amnio showed normal acetylcholinesterase,” said Angie.

“Maybe it’s nothing. Some less serious anomaly, or just a software artifact. I’ll have the specialist take a look.”

The examination ended. We drove home in silence.

“What is it?” I asked later.

“A birth defect. The spinal column is supposed to close in the first month of pregnancy. If it doesn’t, the damage to the spinal cord can mean significant paralysis, learning disabilities, a whole host of problems.”

“What will they do if she’s got it?”

“We’ll have to terminate the pregnancy.”

“What?”

“It’s the only thing to do. The client isn’t paying to have a child with a serious illness.”

“Isn’t there some treatment?”

“No. There’s a lot they can do, but they can’t cure it.” She sounded sad, resigned. “It happened to me once before, when a client couldn’t make his payments. It’s not my baby, but I get attached anyway, to the idea of it. It’s hard to let go.”

I felt unaccountably disturbed. Despite appearances, I knew the fetus wasn’t really human, not in a moral sense. It was just an organ in Angie’s body. She, or the agency, could choose to do whatever was prudent. Maybe it was the corporate approach that bothered me. I told myself it was none of my business.

We spoke little over dinner. Angie picked at her all-natural bread and ate only half of her salad. She left early and slept at her own apartment.

I drove to see her the next morning before work. The doctor called during breakfast. Angie said nothing but “yes” and “thank you,” but I could tell from her face that the news was good. She hung up the phone, sat down at the table, and took a sip of orange juice.

“Well?” I said. “What did she say?”

Angie grinned. “There’s nothing wrong. It was a false indicator; she said there’s no reason to believe the baby has any defect at all.”

I was elated. Leaving what was left of my breakfast, I kissed her, then dragged her off to the bedroom. I was late for work that morning, but I didn’t care.

The month of April was warm and wet. It seemed to rain every day. Angie switched to her maternity wardrobe, a classy collection of outfits that made room for her expanding middle. I spent more time at work preparing a demo for our ERV prototype. I was slated to pitch our proposal to NASA in early July.

The baby’s movements became startlingly pronounced. I could see it move, like a ripple underneath Angie’s skin.

“That’s weird,” I told her. I was reminded again of aliens eating their way out of human abdomens.

Angie grinned. “Want to see it again?” She poked her belly with an index finger and a ripple slid over to the other side.

“I can’t believe how much you poke her,” I said. “Aren’t you afraid she’ll get brain damage?”

“I’ll poke you,” she said, and attacked me with her index fingers. I grabbed her hands, spun her around, and held her trapped against me. She screamed and wriggled, and we fell backwards onto the couch.

Twenty minutes later, when we lay spent and panting together, she said, “Ever wonder what it was like to have a family?”

I could tell she meant the question seriously. I pushed up on my elbows so I could look her in the face.

“You mean the classic marriage and kids, like before the Family Freedom Act?”

“I guess. It doesn’t sound romantic when you put it like that.”

“It wasn’t romantic. It was restrictive. Angie, I want to be with you for as long as we’re happy together, but no one’s forcing us. That way, you know I’m here because I like you, not because a law compels me.”

“You really believe all that?” she said.

That made me angry. I climbed off of her and sat up on the couch. “Of course I do. Don’t you?”

“The Family Freedom Act was a reaction to a social crisis,” said Angie. “Millions of women addicted to pleasure drugs, thousands of birth defects, rampant child abuse. It doesn’t mean it’s the best way to run a society.”

“But it’s a good way. Why have half of your population tied up with childbirth when they could be working? It’s more efficient to specialize. Besides, with only individuals licensed as guardians, there are no disagreements about where children belong. Do you want to go back to the days where the government forced people to stay in relationships that didn’t work anymore? When women were expected to stay at home and cook and clean and raise children instead of pursuing their own dreams? It’s taken us generations to break away from that.”

Angie stood up. Her face was flushed.

“And what about me?” she asked. “Are you going to leave when I get fat and ugly?”

I stood up, astonished. “No,” I said. “Look, don’t take it personally.” I put my hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off.

“What if your company transfers you somewhere else? Or you just get tired of Philadelphia?”

“Then I could go. Or stay. Or you could come with me. The point is, it’s up to us.”

She let me touch her then, and I pulled her into a hug. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you want to be with me. It’s just that sometimes…”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said.

I saw little of Angie in the ensuing weeks. My time and my mind were consumed by propulsion systems, aerobrakes, retrorockets, and orbital maneuvering mechanics. We were building a prototype to accompany a contract proposal. If NASA awarded the contract to our company, it would mean years of work building the real thing.

One evening, when I arrived home after 9:00, Angie met me at the door.

“I’m starved. Let’s go to Texas Grill.”

“A steak house? Now?”

“Did I stutter?”

I held my hands up, palms outward. “Texas Grill it is.”

We climbed into the aircar. I started the fans spinning, then depressed the elevator. The elevator clicked, the fans whined, then … nothing. We remained solidly on the ground.

Angie rolled her eyes. “Fancy piece of junk,” she said. “What’s the matter, run out of air?”

“I don’t understand it,” I said, toggling the elevator.

“New technologies never seem to live up to the advertisements.”

“Maybe there’s a faulty compressor.”

“Come on, get out,” she said. “We’ll take my car.”

We jounced our way to the Grill in her ground Cavalier. That late on a Tuesday, the place was deserted, and we were seated right away.

“Maybe the fan computer needs calibrating,” I said.

“Will you be quiet about your car? I want to enjoy my meal.”

I ordered the baby back ribs. Angie ordered a sixteen-ounce medium-rare Delmonico steak with extra mushrooms.

“What happened to the diet?” I asked.

“This is the diet. If I crave it, the baby needs it. Today she wants protein.”

“Bloody carnivore.”

She glared at me. “I’m a bloody Amazon superwoman, is what I am.”

To my horror, she started to cry. I hadn’t caught any warning signs. I had no idea what was wrong.

“What is it?” I asked.

She waved a hand in the air. “Nothing. It’s just…”

I held her hand across the table. “Just what?”

“I hardly see you anymore. I know, you’ve got work; it’s important; I don’t want to keep you from it. It’s just … I’m alone so much, and … I know it’s probably just hormones, but…” She wiped her eyes with a napkin.

“I’m sorry,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

“Don’t be sorry.” She straightened and folded her napkin. “I’ll be all right now.”

“Would it help if I took a day off? We could spend a long weekend together, go down to Inner Harbor or Annapolis and take a sailboat out for a day.”

“You’re such an engineer,” she said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means stop trying to fix me. I’m just feeling sad, that’s all. It’ll pass.”

“Can’t I do anything to help?”

“Just listen.”

I listened. She didn’t say anything. We sat in silence for several minutes. I hated seeing her like this; she usually seemed so in control.

“If your job moved somewhere else in the country,” she said finally, “would you follow it?”

I thought about the question, and what might be behind it. “I’d probably want to,” I said. Then: “Would you come with me?”

She held my gaze through red-rimmed eyes. “I’d probably want to,” she echoed, “but I don’t think I could give up motherhood. At least not until I have one of my own.”

“One of your own? You mean, get a guardian license? Be the mother and the guardian?”

“Why not? It’s something I’ve always wanted to do.”

“Wouldn’t there be some kind of conflict of interest?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Women have done it for thousands of years.”

“Well, I guess. But if we moved somewhere else, you could find another agency.”

“Yes, with a hundred applicants for each opening. It wasn’t easy to land the job I have. If I left this agency, I might never have another chance.”

I didn’t answer for a moment. Then I said, “Those are the issues. Either we’d give each other up, or one of us would sacrifice career options. But Angie, it’s all hypothetical. Let’s wait until it happens before we lose any sleep.”

She gave me a watery smile. “There is someplace I’d like to go. For a long weekend.”

I was happy to change the subject. “Where to?” I said.

“My 10-year high school class reunion, July 12th, in Buffalo.”

I groaned.

“Come on. For me.”

“It’ll be a nightmare. A room full of strangers trying to pretend they’re years younger than they really are.”

“They’re not strangers to me.”

“You’ll be eight months pregnant then. Don’t you have to stay near Philly?

“It’s three weeks before my due date. None of my babies have come early, and it’s not like there are no doctors in Buffalo. Besides, I’m a certified midwife. If we get caught in a freak July snowstorm, I can deliver the baby myself.”

“You’ll turn a few heads,” I said, nodding at her belly.

“That’s why I want to go. It’ll be a scream.”

Her tone was light now, but I could sense the tears just under the surface.

“We’ll do it,” I said. “It’s, what, a six-hour drive?”

“About that. But I’d like to stop on the way and see my sister Lisa. She lives in a cabin up in the Poconos. I haven’t seen her in over a year.”

“She lives alone?”

“With a man, now, though I haven’t met him. I think his name is Harold.”

“I’ll be flying to California two weeks before that,” I said. “That’s when my demo is scheduled. But I should be home well before the 12th.”

We talked about the trip for the rest of the meal. Angie didn’t cry again. When we finished, I had to ask for a take-home box. Angie had cleaned her plate.

At the end of June, I flew out to the Jet Propulsion Lab in Pasadena, California to demo our ERV prototype to NASA execs. It was my first time at JPL, and I loved the environment: scientists and engineers at the top of their fields, every one of them thrilled at the prospect of sending a man to Mars. It would take years to accomplish, but everyone at JPL believed it could and would be done. I felt at home.

The proposal process hit delays, however, and took longer than expected. Finally, on July 11th, the Exploration Program Office accepted our proposal for consideration, and I prepared to return home. I called Angie, and we arranged for her to meet me at the Philadelphia airport. We would drive straight from there to her sister’s, and then on to Buffalo.

I had just turned in my badge to the JPL security desk when one of the mission directors intercepted me. He was a giant in the community: a former astronaut and a leader in every significant space mission since Zeus.

“I’m glad I caught you,” he said. “That was an impressive demo.”

I thanked him, waiting for his real purpose.

“Listen,” he said, steering me toward some green plush chairs in the lobby, “we’re not going to give the contract to your team.”

I gaped at him. I hadn’t seen any of the demos from competing contractors, but I felt we had a strong proposal. How could a winning bid have been selected in only a few hours, without following the review board process?

“It’s a political decision,” he said. “Your company already won a big piece of the launch contract, and they want to spread the funds around, to promote future competition. It’ll go through the review board as usual, but at the end of the day, the contract will go to another team.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I said.

He smiled. “I don’t like losing talent. I need engineers who understand the whole mission, not just isolated components. I think you do. In short, I want to hire you. You’d be on my staff, one of my firefighters, with input into the whole system. What do you think?”

I felt blindsided. That my ERV design would be scrapped for political reasons made me furious, but the chance to be a serious player on the team that sent a man to Mars! How could I pass that up? But did I really want to be mired in an environment so governed by political concerns? And what about Angie?

“Can I get back to you?” I said.

“Yes, think about it,” he said. He pressed a business card into my hand. “Call me. Soon.”

I took the card. He stood. “As I said, an impressive demo.”

“Thanks,” I said.

I walked out of the building, feeling dizzy. A senior technical position on a space mission! It would mean a higher salary, better benefits, but most importantly, the chance to be part of the action. To know every system, to be consulted on critical decisions, and finally to watch from the ground as the technology I designed made history.

The problem was Angie. She’d as much as told me she wouldn’t be willing to leave Philadelphia. Having a baby of her own meant that much to her. If I wanted this job, it might very well mean leaving her behind. Could I do that? I thought about nothing else the whole flight home, but when we touched down in Philly, I was no closer to a decision.

Angie met me in the baggage claim area. She seemed twice the size she’d been when I’d left.

“How’s the baby?” I asked.

“Enormous. It’s hard to sleep anymore from the kicks and contractions.”

“Contractions?”

“Not the real thing, just preliminary. It’s my body getting warmed up.”

She seemed so happy. Despite her size, she seemed to float down the airport hallways, and she couldn’t stop smiling. I fingered the business card in my pocket. I ought to tell her about the job offer right away, but I didn’t want to spoil her mood. Maybe I could wait until the long car trip; she’d have a lot of questions, and it would be easier to talk once we were on the road.

“So how did it go?” she asked.

“Fine,” I said. “The people there are great. It was an exciting time to visit.”

She took my arm as we walked toward the parking lot. “You’ll win the contract,” she said. “I know you will.”

We reached the lot, and there, neatly parked, was my Elation.

“You brought my car?”

“I thought you might prefer it. Since you’re going to be doing all the driving.”

I hugged her. “Thank you,” I said. I’d been dreading six hours in her Cavalier.

We climbed in, paid the machine at the gate, and set off on I-76 toward the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

“So you’re not sleeping?” I asked.

“How well do you think you’d sleep with something the size of a bowling ball pressing down on your bladder?”

I laughed. “You’ve only got another three weeks, though, right?”

“Until my due date. But I’ve always gone late. I think all this discomfort is just my body’s way of preparing my mind for labor. I get so tired of having this baby inside me that I actually look forward to it.”

To me, a relaxing road trip means soft jazz on the stereo, attractive scenery, and quiet, lazy hours. To Angie, it means constant conversation. She kept up a constant patter all the way up the Northeast Extension to I-81 in Scranton, then for another half-hour along I-84 East. I barely heard her. I kept thinking about the job offer, kept trying to find an appropriate point in the conversation to bring it up. Maybe it was better to wait until I’d made a final decision; that way, if I decided to stay, she’d never have to know at all. But no, Angie and I had always communicated well; that’s why our relationship worked. I had to tell her. But when we turned off I-84 at the Milford exit and headed north, I still hadn’t said a thing.

The road wound its way through woods and into higher elevation. The air grew cool and fresh. At a row of ten mailboxes, we turned left onto a bumpy dirt road. The aircar hovered smoothly, unaffected by the terrain.

“I take back everything I ever said about your car,” said Angie. “It’s a pregnant woman’s dream. In my car, this road would kill me.”

“Which cabin is hers?”

“It should be the last one on this road. About a quarter-mile down.”

We caught glimpses of a lake through the trees, its surface shimmering silver in the sunlight. I could see why people chose to live up here. It was beautiful. We’d just passed the ninth cabin when Angie said, “Ouch!”

“What is it?”

“I’m having a contraction.”

I stole a glance at her face. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, no problem; it happens a lot now. Wow. Feel how tight my belly is.”

I reached over and felt the tense muscles.

“Does it hurt?” I asked.

“A little. It’s mostly … watch the road!”

I looked up just in time to see it: a bridge floored with metal grating instead of concrete, the kind called “singing” bridges for the sound tires make on their surface. My car didn’t have any tires. It was too late to stop. I floored the accelerator, hoping for enough momentum to reach the other side. We almost made it.

It was a small bridge, no more than a twenty-foot span across a mossy brook, but its metal grid sliced through the car’s air cushion like a cheese grater, and gravity took control. We struck the bridge surface nose-first, the force of the collision severing the supports on the far side. The bridge angled sharply, and we fell with it, scraping sparks down its length until we jolted into the stream.

I couldn’t hear. In some faraway place, I thought Angie was screaming, but I couldn’t think why. A sign, why hadn’t there been a sign to warn about the bridge? In most places, the advent of aircars had forced these bridges to be replaced, but apparently not many aircars made it up here. Maybe there had been a sign, and I hadn’t noticed. It occurred to me that we were going to be late for the class reunion.

My last thought before I blacked out was that my feet were getting wet.

The car door wrenched open, and a beefy man with red hair shouted at me from a long distance. He took a handful of stream water and threw it in my face.

“Are you hurt?” he shouted, and his voice sounded much louder this time. “Can you walk?”

I stumbled out of the car into the knee-high stream. “Angie—where’s Angie?”

“In the house,” said the man. “Come on; I’m Harold.” He helped me climb the bank. I made it into the living room, a rustic affair that smelled of pine and fresh fish. Angie lay on her back on the couch, eyes wide, breathing like a panicked animal. Her sister hovered nearby, eyes just as large.

“Are you hurt?” I asked Angie.

She shook her head, breathing in gasps, and I saw that she clutched her stomach.

“The baby? It’s coming?”

She nodded. “I’m afraid,” she said. Her chest rose and fell in ragged meter.

I kneeled by her and took her hand. “Angela Turner,” I said, “you’re a registered nurse and certified midwife. You told me you could deliver this baby in a snowstorm.”

“It’s too soon,” she said between breaths. “My water broke in the crash. She’s coming too soon.”

“It’s not too soon,” I said. “Twenty percent of all births start in the 37th week, and there’s no appreciable increase in risk. You’re a bloody Amazon superwoman, remember? You can do this.”

She grimaced. “It’s not nice to use my own words against me.” She turned to her sister. “Lisa, I need to use your bed. I’ll need pillows, towels, a basin of water. Harold, call the nearest hospital and get an ambulance up here. Then boil a pair of scissors. Just in case.”

I helped her walk to the bedroom. She shuffled slowly, stopping once and groaning until the contraction passed. I saw that her belly hung much lower now than it had the day before. She lay on the bed and directed me to prop pillows behind her back, head, and under her legs.

Harold stuck his head in. “They’re on their way.”

“Tell them to be quick,” Angie grunted, “or they’ll miss it.”

Minutes passed like hours. Angie rocked rhythmically in the bed, panting like someone running uphill. She kept her eyes shut. Lisa looked in several times, but never stayed. I wasn’t even sure Angie knew I was there, she was so focused on what she was doing. I stood next to the bed, watching her, but I didn’t know whether to touch her or leave her alone.

The contractions grew longer and more intense. As another one began, Angie gasped, grabbed my hand, and started to moan. She held the moan like a note, drawing it out, her face taut with pain. When it passed, she said, “Talk to me.”

I had no idea what to say. “You’re doing great,” I tried. “You can do this.”

“No, something else, talk to me about something else. Distract me.”

I thought hard. “You’re going to miss your chance to shock your classmates,” I said. “And I’ll miss my chance to slow dance with a pregnant woman. How many people there do you think…”

“Okay, be quiet.”

“I thought you wanted…”

“Shut up, just shut up! Sorry—she’s coming!”

Angie screamed. It was a ferocious sound, half-scream, half-growl: a feminine roar of determination. She bore down with every muscle in her body, her whole attention turned inward. Her face turned red and sweaty. I wanted to run and shout for the ambulance, but I couldn’t leave her.

When the contraction passed, she lay spent and gasping. “So fast,” she said. “It’s never been this fast.”

Lisa came in. “The ambulance is here, but it can’t get across the bridge. They want you to come out.”

“Too late,” said Angie, and screamed again. I’d never felt so helpless. I wanted to touch her, soothe her, make everything all right, but there was nothing I could do.

Instead, I stood awkwardly by the bed, my hands by my side, and watched. Please, God, don’t let her die. She screamed again and arched, the skin on her neck stretched tight across tendons and veins. I’d never seen such pain. There was something wrong. This couldn’t be normal. She was dying; I could see she was going to die.

Lisa stood frozen, gaping at her sister.

“Get somebody in here!” I shouted.

Lisa ran out. She nearly collided with a paramedic on his way in.

“Ma’am, my name’s Henry, and I’m on a special birthing team,” he said to Angie. “I’m just going to check and make sure everything’s fine.”

I could have screamed at him. Couldn’t he see she wasn’t fine? He seemed almost cheerful as he snapped on rubber gloves, then examined Angie.

“Good orientation,” he said. “It’s past the turn. Won’t be long now. Boy or girl?”

Angie grunted. “A girl,” she said.

I was astonished to hear her speak.

“She’s going to be all right?” I asked.

“She’ll be fine. It’s almost over. Look, you can see the head.”

I looked and saw a cap of dark, wet hair. Amazed, I told Angie, “You’re doing it. It’s almost over. You’re doing it.”

She gave a scream that curled her whole body into a muscular ball. At first, nothing happened, but then, all at once, the whole baby flooded into a towel in the paramedic’s arms. He expertly cut the cord, wrapped the towel around the baby, and placed her on Angie’s chest. The baby let loose a squeaky cry. Angie laughed.

I cried. I didn’t even notice at first. I was so overcome by relief that only later did I realize that my cheeks were wet.

The baby crinkled her face and waved a tiny, clenched fist. She was wrinkled, bloody, and smeared with a white butter I knew from my readings was called vernix. Her eyes crossed. Hair sprouted from the tops of her ears.

“She’s beautiful,” said the paramedic. “A little blue, but I’d give her an APGAR of eight.”

I sat on the bed next to Angie and ran my fingers through her hair. “You did it,” I said.

She grinned at me. “Want to hold her?”

I took the wrinkled, bluish-brown baby and cradled her awkwardly. I’d expected the vernix to be slimy, but it had a pleasant texture: a little sticky, but soft.

“That’s good for her,” said Angie. “You can rub that into her skin.”

The baby started to cry. I walked her to the window, rocking her and whispering soothing words. I looked at her chubby arms, the folds of skin under her neck, the fine hair down her back, her dark, half-closed eyes. I counted her fingers and toes.

Outside, the ambulance disgorged a stretcher and other paraphernalia. Two police cars parked alongside. A helicopter roared over the fallen bridge toward me and touched down next to the house. When the blades stopped churning, a blond, fortyish woman in a suit jumped out, followed by a man with a diaper bag and an infant car seat. The room began to fill with people I didn’t know.

The blond woman marched straight to Angie’s bed. She was older than she appeared from a distance, with heavy make-up to hide it.

“I don’t know what to say to you,” she said in low, furious tones. “Tell me, what should I say to you?”

“The baby’s fine,” said Angie.

“That’s not the point. You signed a contract; you’re expected to honor its terms.”

“The contract allows for travel.”

“Within easy reach of a hospital! What do you call this?” The woman threw out her hands, indicating the cabin.

“There was an accident.”

“I saw. I heard. Why do you think I’m here? Where’s the baby?”

Angie pointed to me. “There. She’s fine.”

“Good thing. You were lucky.”

The blond woman held out her hands toward me. I stared at her. She wanted me to give her the baby. After all I had just seen, after all Angie had endured, this stranger wanted to breeze in and take Angie’s baby away.

“You’re going to take her in a helicopter?” I asked.

“Of course not. We have a car. Now, please?”

I didn’t move.

“Darling, this is my boss,” said Angie. “She’s from the agency. She’s here to take the baby to her legal guardians.”

My mind jammed. I couldn’t think why I should comply. I had insane visions of running out of the cabin with the baby, losing pursuit in the woods, taking a new identity, contacting Angie when we were safe.

“I don’t have time for this,” said the blond woman. She lifted the child out of my arms. I didn’t resist. I watched her aide dress the baby in a disposable diaper and white cotton gown and then strap her into the car seat.

“This conversation isn’t over,” the woman said to Angie. “Come see me when you’ve recovered.”

They left. Through the window, I saw them put the car seat in a waiting Volvo and thread the seatbelt through the clasps. They climbed in beside it. The Olds departed, raising dust.

Once they were gone, Angie cried. I sat on the edge of the bed and held her, not speaking. Eventually, she said, “It’s always like this. I cry for days, and I hate myself. After a few weeks, I miss the baby so much that I want another one growing inside me, to ease the pain of the last. I go back to the clinic, and it starts all over again.” She wiped her eyes. “But now that’s going to change. I submitted the paperwork for a license. Next time, I’m having one of my own.”

They transferred Angie to a nearby hospital. The police forced me to wait with my car until a crane came to pull it out. The hood was crushed and the underside scraped, but to my surprise, the car still functioned. After endless questions and paperwork, they released me.

According to Lisa’s directions, the hospital lay on the other side of the mountain. I drove carefully in the growing darkness, navigating jagged cutbacks up the slope. Trees flickered by on either side. At the top, the trees cleared to reveal a rocky overhang. I pulled over, stopped the car, and climbed out.

I crunched through gravel to the edge. The valley lay draped in a glistening haze. I saw miles of dark trees, clusters of houses, steepled churches, headlights winding along a distant highway. On the eastern horizon, where the haze met the sky, I could see a glow, probably from Port Jervis on the far side of the river. Only seventy-five miles beyond that lay New York City, the largest concentration of humanity in the world. Somewhere out there, the new baby would be meeting her legal guardians. She’d be loved by someone, protected, held close, but for me, as unreachable as Mars.

My eyes drifted to Antares, gleaming redly at the heart of Scorpio. When Mars passed near it every two years or so, even experienced stargazers had some trouble telling them apart. I slipped the mission director’s business card out of my pocket. Was it the real thing? An opportunity for success and happiness? The chance to do something important with my life?

I rubbed my hands together. They felt smooth and soft from the vernix on the baby’s skin. I stared at the business card for a long time. Finally, I dropped it. It fluttered off in the breeze, spiraling down the slope and out of sight.

I climbed back into my car, turned on the radio, and drove down toward the hospital.

Copyright © 2006 David Walton

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