The Best Science Fiction of the Year: Volume Six (Best Science Fiction fo the Year) by Neil Clarke

Author:Neil Clarke [Clarke, Neil]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
ISBN: 9781949102529
Publisher: Night Shade Books
Published: 2022-01-31T23:00:00+00:00

3.

When I got home, Jessica, our teenaged occasional babysitter, was changing Brady, Kenly was watching TV—usually forbidden on weekdays—and Jen was at the computer in my study, still in the bathrobe she’d worn that morning. She scowled at me.

“It’s so confusing! Some studies say that genes for dopamine receptors like DRD4 influence risk taking, especially if you have seven repeats of the gene. Other studies say no, it isn’t dopamine, it’s glutamate and gamma-aminobutyric acid, neurotransmitters in the brain. Some scientists say there are more than a hundred genetic variants linked with risk taking, but even combined they account for only about 2 percent of differences in risk taking among people. How the hell can they figure out that? Then more studies say none of those studies are reliable because they use self-reporting, and people lie. I don’t . . . I can’t figure out . . . ”

She was trembling. I took her in my arms. Her hair smelled dirty. I held her closer. Jen and I do this for each other: switch roles from comforter to one who needs comforting. I see a lot of broken marriages, and I know how good it is that we aren’t each locked into one role.

When she stopped trembling, I said, “Tell me everything from the beginning, every little detail.”

She pulled away and smiled wanly. “You want to take a deposition?”

“Yes. You want a lawyer present?”

“Fortunately, I have one.”

We talked for a long time. She told me about the research she’d found on risk taking, which was confusing, although presumably not to scientists. I told her about George, and how much they were going to cost us.

Jessica knocked on the door. “Kenly wants to go to the park. Is that okay? Brady’s asleep.”

“Sure,” Jen said.

We resumed our conversation, minutely examining Kenly’s behavior for all of her seven years, comparing it to other children’s, and ending up as baffled as before. “I want to have a full gene scan done on Kenly,” Jen said. “Not the kind that just tells you where your ancestors are from—the full real thing. So I can compare it online to that of a normal seven-year-old girl.”

“Honey, I don’t think there’s such a thing as ‘normal.’ The alleles—”

“You know what I mean! Don’t nitpick!”

She was a tinderbox, and I was not going to light a match. “Yes, I know. We’ll do it.”

“I’ll find some place and make an appointment for tomorrow, I—”

The kitchen door slammed and Jessica’s voice, uncharacteristically loud, said, “Don’t you ever do that again!”

Jen and I raced to the kitchen. Kenly stood with her purple backpack at her feet, and Jessica—Jessica!, eighteen, mathlete, Jane Austen lover—held a Glock subcompact handgun.

Jen grabbed Kenly by the shoulders. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. I hate Jessica!”

“No, you don’t. Jessica, what happened?”

I said, “Are you licensed to carry that weapon? And did you fire it?” Please, God, let her say no. But my mind raced through names of criminal defense lawyers, state gun laws, and bail bonds.

Jessica, pale but coherent,

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