Darwin's Children by Greg Bear

Author:Greg Bear
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Mutation (Biology), High Tech, Science Fiction, Social Control, Virginia, General, Parent and Child, Viruses, Technological, Fiction, Children
ISBN: 9780345448361
Publisher: Del Rey
Published: 1987-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

PART THREE

SHEVA + 18

“We're in year eighteen of what some have called the Virus Century. The whole world is still running scared, though there are faint and tremulous hints of a political solution.

“Yet the majority of people polled today haven't the faintest idea what a virus is. For most of us, ‘They're small and they make us sick’ just about says it all.

“Most scientists insist that viruses are genetic pirates, hijacking and killing cells to reproduce: ‘Selfish genes with switchblades,’ ‘Terrorist DNA.’ Others say we've got it mostly wrong, that many viruses are genetic messengers, carrying signals between cells in the body and even between you and me: ‘Genetic FedEx.’

“The truth probably combines both views. It's a weird old biological ballgame, and most scientists agree we're not even in the second inning.”

— FoxMedia producer pitching a Floodnet Real Life,

Real News special ; rejected

“Who'll buy ad time? It's too scary. What the hell does ‘tremulous’ mean? I'm tired of all this science shit. Science ruins my day. Let me know if and when the president stays on the pot long enough to get his job done. He's our boy. Maybe if, maybe then, but no promises.”

— Memo from FoxMedia CEO and program executive

1

FORT DETRICK, MARYLAND

Kaye stared into Mrs. Rhine's darkened living room. The furniture had been rearranged in bizarre ways; a couch overturned, covered with a sheet, the bumps of its legs pointing into the air and pillows arranged in a cross on the floor around it; two wooden chairs leaning face-forward against the wall in a corner as if they were being punished.

Small white cardboard boxes covered the coffee table.

Freedman tapped the intercom button. “Carla, we're here. I've brought Kaye Lang Rafelson.”

Mrs. Rhine walked briskly through the door, took a chair from a corner, swung it into the center of the room, two yards from the thick window, and sat. She wore plain blue denim coveralls. Gauze covered her arms and hands and most of her face. She wore a kerchief, and it did not look as if she had any hair.

The little flesh that showed was red and puffy. Her eyes were intense between the mummy folds of gauze.

“I'll turn my lights down,” she said, her voice clear and almost etched over the intercom. “You turn yours up. No need to look at me.”

“All right,” Freedman said, and brightened the lights in the viewing room.

The lights in Mrs. Rhine's living room darkened until they could see her only in silhouette. “Welcome to my home, Dr. Rafelson,” she said.

“I was pleased to get your message,” Kaye said.

Freedman folded her arms and stood back.

“Christopher Dicken used to bring flowers,” Mrs. Rhine said. Her movements were awkward, jerky. “I can't have flowers now. Once a week I have to go into a little closet and they send a robot in here to scrub everything. They have to get rid of all the little house-dust things. Fungus and bacteria and such that might grow from old flakes of skin. They can kill me now, if they build up in here.

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