Incubation (The Incubation Trilogy Book 1) (23 page)

“Another time,” Dr. Wendt says, disappearing into her lab.

I follow the technician out of the building and across to the birthing center. She leads me through the pink halls to a sterile suite where Dr. Malabar is waiting, a file in her hands. There’s a rolling tray holding a length of thin, flexible tubing and a syringe. My gaze fixes on the liquid in the syringe which contains the blastocyst they’re going to transfer to my uterus. I wiggle my big toe, comforted by the slight discomfort the pill beneath my nail causes.

“Your tests were fine,” Dr. Malabar says, gesturing with the file, “so there’s no reason we can’t proceed."

In a moment of piercing revelation, I realize I don’t have to break into the DNA database. Dr. Malabar is undoubtedly holding a copy of my DNA printout and everything related to it from the database. It’s right there, in that file mere inches away. My parents’ names. My genetic history. Who I am.

“No need to be nervous.” Dr. Malabar misinterprets my suddenly shallow breathing. “The procedure is painless. We sedate you. It’s not medically necessary, but we find most of the surrogates are more comfortable with intravenous sedation during the procedure. You won’t be asleep, but you won’t remember the details. Jariah here will help you undress and prep you for the procedure. I’ll be back in a few minutes and then we’ll have you on your way to the expectant mothers’ quarters.” She smiles, but it’s an automatic reflex, part of her bedside manner.

I disrobe and get on the table. The technician covers me with a sheet and swabs the crook of my elbow with a germicide. It’s cold. I resist the urge to yank my arm away when she tightens a band around my upper arm and painlessly eases a needle into my vein. Fluid begins to drip from a bag hung on a metal pole.

“Do you know the story of Moses?” Jariah asks in a low voice. “The Hebrew baby left in a basket in the reeds?”

Moses. The code word. My eyes widen. Jariah is Pharaoh’s Daughter. I study her. She’s maybe thirty and unremarkable as to hair, build, and coloring. Her hands are pretty, though, as they adjust a dial on the IV: slender, long-fingered, smoothly white.

“I’m not much of a Bible reader.” I give the correct reply.

She nods. “Your friend is scheduled for an extraction tomorrow. She’s been moved to the birthing suite. The timetable’s been moved up. You break out tonight.”

I’ve barely processed her words when Dr. Malabar strides through the door. She pumps a half-full syringe into the IV port and then picks up the prepared syringe on the tray. “Ready? Right then. Let’s do it.”

Chapter Twenty Four

I awake in a bed. It takes me a moment to figure out it’s not the bed I slept in last night. There’s a window nearby and the sun slants in at a mid-day angle. None of my new roommates are present; they’re probably lunching or in the lounge. Other than a little cramping, I don’t feel any effects from the implantation procedure. In fact, I feel pretty good. Could pregnancy hormones be kicking in already, giving me this feeling of well-being? No way. A moment of clear-headedness tells me Dr. Malabar included some kind of hormone and/or chemical cocktail in my IV. I’m
supposed
to feel good, supposed to be happy I’m pregnant. I sit up and reach for my toe and the pill, but then hesitate. It’s strange to think that right this minute there’s new life growing inside of me.

The opportunity passes as Dr. Malabar comes in, my file in her hand. “The procedure went perfectly,” she says, standing over me. “How do you feel?”

“Good. Great.”

She checks my temperature and oxygen levels, makes notes in my file, and tells me they’ll do more blood work in a week. Before she can leave, I ask, “Can I see the birthing area? I’d like to know what to expect.” I have got to make contact with Halla.

A line appears between her brows. “There’s plenty of time—”

“It’s just that I’m so excited about it,” I say before she can deny me. “I want to watch a birth and talk to surrogates who have given birth, so I’ll do it right.”

That makes her snort. “Almost all our births are assisted extractions, so there’s no way
not
to do it right, but I don’t see what it would hurt. I’m on my way there now; we have a surrogate about to give birth. You have a background in biology, I understand. You can come.”

I hop out of bed and follow her from the room. Dr. Malabar detours into what looks like an office and slides my folder into a narrow slot above her desk. My teeth ache with my need to see its contents. She emerges and sets a brisk pace down the hall, lab coat flapping. I keep up and ask, “What’s an assisted extraction?”

“Natural childbirth is too painful and we find it discourages surrogates from volunteering to carry subsequent fetuses,” she says, not slowing. “In an assisted extraction, we use a laser scalpel to make an incision low on the abdomen and then through the uterus. We remove the baby manually and close the uterus and incision site with surgical sealant. It’s much less traumatic for the surrogate and the baby.” By now, we’ve exited the exam wing, traversed the nursery wing, and are on the hall with the birthing suites, with Dr. Malabar having used a card hanging by a lanyard to open each door. Iris scans take too much time, I guess, when you might be responding to a life-and-death emergency.

I almost bump into Dr. Malabar when she stops outside a sliding door.

“This is it.”

Before we can enter, a voice crackles over an intercom system. “Dr. Malabar. You’re needed in the nursery. Stat.” The speaker’s panic is evident even over the intercom.

“The preemie,” she mutters and takes off at a half-trot.

She’s forgotten me. This is my opportunity to find Halla. The first two rooms I look in—not bothering to knock—are empty. The third contains a woman I don’t know. I find Halla behind the next door. My relief makes me careless. “Halla!” Only after greeting her do I remember Fiere’s caution about always being under observation. I have to assume there’s an imager in here.

She struggles to sit up, her face lighting. She looks healthier than she has in weeks and I can see that even a few days of good food and rest have helped her. The ripples across her belly indicate that Little Loudon is kicking mightily. Before she can say something that will totally give the game away, I rush in with, “I had my implantation this morning and Dr. Malabar said I could chat with some of the women about to give birth to find out about their experiences. You’re Halla, right?”

Halla nods, obviously confused by my patter, but trying to play along. “I’m happy to tell you anything I can,” she says, “but I haven’t been here long. And this is my first birth, so I’m not exactly an expert.”

I cut my eyes upward toward the lens in the corner they’ve made no attempt to hide.

Halla’s eyes widen with comprehension.

“I’m Everly.” I scan the room for something to write on and with. “You’re having an assisted extraction tomorrow morning, right?”

Halla nods. “I’m afraid.”

“I hear the procedure is very simple,” I say, knowing she’s really telling me she’s afraid they’ll take Little Loudon away. There’s nothing to write on. Damn. I scramble to find a way to tell her about our escape. “I suppose they need to prep you for the procedure well in advance, though; they probably wake you about
four a.m
.”

Halla frowns, puzzled, but says, “I guess so.”

“I heard they’ll be here bright and early, at
four o’clock
, to get you ready to
go
.”

Halla sucks in a breath and it turns into a hiccup. She nods vigorously. She gets it. We chat inanely for another couple of minutes and then I say, “I should talk to a couple more women. Thanks for chatting with me. I hope it goes well for you.” I reach for her hand and she grips mine tightly. I think the contact makes both of us feel better.

“Nice meeting you, Emily,” Halla says, eyes twinkling as she deliberately gets my name wrong.

I can’t help but smile, so relieved that she’s okay, that we’re getting out of here tonight. “You, too.”

I slip out of her room and decide I should really chat with another about-to-pop surrogate or two in case whoever’s watching and listening is suspicious. I talk to one woman who’s also having an extraction in the morning, and babble about how early they’ll have to wake her for the procedure. “I am not a morning person,” I say. I also talk to a woman who had an extraction earlier in the day. She says how much she’s looking forward to serving at an outpost now that she’s delivered the baby.

I leave her room, sobered, and find Dr. Malabar coming toward me. She frowns. “I forgot you were here. Surrogates aren’t supposed to be in this wing unescorted.” She has a technician escort me back to the dormitory, but I don’t care. I accomplished my mission.

I eat dinner with my new dorm mates, shower, and climb into bed early. I have several opportunities to take my pill, but I don’t. Every time I think about it, I hesitate. Maybe it’s the hormone cocktail they pumped into me, but I can’t yet bring myself to swallow the pill that will flush the baby—not even a baby, a collection of cells—from my body. The pill might have side effects, I reason, might make me too ill to escape tonight. I’ll take it when I’m safely back at the bordello.

I’ve formulated a plan and once under the sheet I begin to put it into effect. Halla being in the birthing suite has complicated matters considerably. I can only think of one way to get into that building in the middle of the night. Consequently, I use the fork I smuggled out of the dining area to stab at my thighs and buttocks until I draw blood. I bite down on my pillow to keep from crying out and smear the blood on my sheet. I have to do some serious gouging. It takes far too long to get what I consider to be enough blood and I’m sore and frazzled by the time I’m done. Carefully folding Saben’s drawing, I tuck it into my bra and wait for three-thirty. I occupy myself by obsessively running over my plan and the route we’ll have to take from the birthing suite to the fence.

At three-thirty, I let out a loud moan. I sit up and double over. “Oh, God, it hurts.”

A light comes on. The woman in the next bed looks at me with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Cramps,” I bite out, hunching forward and wrapping my arms around my stomach.

Other women sit up and one comes to my bed. I strategically kick the sheet aside, supposedly in the throes of pain, and she spots the blood. “You’re bleeding. Delania, fetch the technician on duty.”

One of the women scuttles out. I’m desperately hoping that Jariah will show up, but it’s a technician I don’t know. She’s fiftyish, several inches shorter than me, and at least twenty pounds heavier; her scrubs aren’t going to fit very well. I let out something close to a scream when she comes through the door.

“Something’s wrong,” I sob.

“She’s bleeding,” my roommate observes helpfully.

The technician takes one look at the sheets, and helps me out of bed. “Let’s get you over to an exam room and have a doctor look at you. You had an implantation today, didn’t you?”

I nod and head for the door, clutching my stomach the whole way. The technician motions for the other women to go back to bed and follows me into the hall. It’s quiet. No one else is stirring. I let her take me by the arm and lead me into the medical complex. Once she badges us inside, I make retching noises.

“It hurts so bad I’m going to throw up.”

The technician hustles me to a hyfac. I rush to the stall and when she follows me, I reverse and slam the stall door into her. Dazed, she puts an arm out. I duck under it, get my arms around her, and bull her backward. She’s soft and doughy in my embrace, and smells slightly sour. When I’ve got her up against the wall, I curl my fingers under like Fiere showed me and jab her in the solar plexus. She doubles over, and I crack my knee against her chin. Her head snaps back into the wall and she slumps down, unconscious. It’s over in less than twenty seconds.

Only when she’s out do I realize I’ve been saying, “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” the whole time. The last “sorry” seems to echo against the tile. Conscious of time ticking away, I manhandle her out of her scrub pants and top, sweating and breathing hard with the effort. It takes too long. I pull the clothes on, free the badge lanyard from around her neck, and drag her into the stall. It’s the best I can do. I don’t suppose she’ll be out for long; every second counts.

Trying to slow my breathing, I slip into the hall. No one’s in sight. It’s already four o’clock. Stripping the technician took much longer than planned—I need to go straight to Halla or we run the risk of not making it out before the Bulrush team has to pull back. I don’t have time to hunt for my DNA data, for the folder that will tell me who my parents are. I chew my upper lip, torn by indecision. I can’t stand the thought of being this close and coming away without the information I’ve yearned for all my life. I jiggle up and down, and then head to my left. The excess fabric of the jumpsuit bunches between my thighs, making my stride awkward.

At Dr. Malabar’s office I knock, aware of the imagers. When there’s no answer, I wave the badge over the reader’s red eye. Nothing happens. It’s not coded for access.
I shouldn’t be here
. I should be getting Halla and leaving the building right now. But I can’t go without my DNA report. It’s right here. I can’t pass up this chance. Angling my body so the imager can’t see what I’m doing, hopefully, I wedge the slim badge between the door and the frame, wiggling it. Precious seconds tick away, but then the lock tongue slides back. I’m in."

I slip inside and turn on the light. I grab a handful of folders and flip through them until I reach one labeled “Jax, Everly.” Letting the others drop, I scan the first document which seems to be details of the implantation, and thumb to the next. Immunological compatibility screening. Not what I want.
Get Halla, go get Halla,
my conscience shouts
.
My head feels pressurized. The third sheet is headed “DNA Structure and Genomic Analysis.” I snatch it out, fold it, and tuck it into my waistband. Voices sound from the hall, and I jerk. Crossing the office on tiptoe, I ease the door open a half inch and put my eye to the crack.
Oh, no
.

Two women in yellow jumpsuits—a cleaning team it looks like. They’ve got a rolling cart full of supplies, and one of them holds a sanitizer wand, but they’re not working. They’re chatting, grousing about the effort it takes to sterilize an operating suite after an extraction. I can’t leave the office while they’re in the hall. It’s ten nail biting, lip chewing minutes before their voices grow fainter. I peer through the crack to make sure they’re gone, and see them headed toward the hyfac where I left the injured technician. I’m screwed. Even though they’re still in sight, their backs are to me and I have to risk it. I ghost out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar so the cleaners won’t be alerted by the click. I can’t make myself walk and only hope that any watchers will assume I’m headed to an emergency. I’m praying the badge will work as I approach the nursery wing. It does and I hear a baby’s thin wail as I hurry along the hall, focused on the door that leads to the birthing suites and Halla.

I’m almost to it when a door opens behind me and a voice says, “Technician, I need some help here, please.”

Without turning around, I make my voice gruff and say, “I’ve got a cold. I’m not supposed to handle the”—The what? Do they call them infants? Babies? Ex-fetuses? I’m sure there’s a correct term, like making the surrogates say “fetus” instead of “baby,” but I don’t know it. I fake a sneeze, hold the badge to the reader, and am through the door as the now suspicious voice says, “Wait!”

She’s going to call for help. If I’m lucky, she’ll think about it for a couple of minutes, or have to do something with a baby first, but she’s going to sound the alarm. I hear it in her voice. I pound down the hall to Halla’s room and burst through the door expecting her to be alert and ready. Instead, she’s curled up on her side under the blanket.