“Well,” he said. “Let’s get on with it.”
6
Jessica leaned her motorcycle into a curve, and the woods opened up to reveal a wide expanse of asphalt with manicured Saint Augustine grass around the edges. Rising from the middle of the parking lot was a rectangular building with a gray granite facade that reflected the sunlight, at least a hundred yards wide and four or five stories high. It had no windows except for a large glass entrance and awning supported by columns of the same granite.
Below the awning, two large holograph projectors displayed large images of parents and children. Two men with a little girl sitting on one of their shoulders. A man and a woman with identical twins. A family in a field kicking a soccer ball. On one side of the glass entrance, the name of the facility blazed in huge red and white letters: ARTEMIS ADVANCED REPRODUCTION CENTER.
Jessica slowed her motorcycle to a stop at the end of a line of cars that waited for admittance at the guard shack. As usual, protestors lined the road to the gate—anti-SRP forces on the right and pro-SRP counter-protestors on the left—but unlike usual, it wasn’t just a bunch of retirees holding hand-painted signs and sitting in lawn chairs today. The crowds on both sides of the road were on their feet, chanting, shouting, almost roaring with rage. As Jessica killed her motorcycle’s electric motor, she heard the loud whine of several police drones. In her rearview mirror she saw two Dragonflies emerge from behind the trees.
Military aircraft? What the hell are they expecting to happen?
Jessica had mixed feelings about these kinds of protests. On the one hand, she sympathized with people who thought that mandatory contraceptive implants meant government control over women’s bodies. On the other hand, she couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to go back to the way things were before, with all of the wild, uncontrollable, and unnecessary health risks to both mother and child alike. Lugging a fragile, developing fetus around inside another human’s body was not only reckless but grotesque.
She took off her helmet, hung it by the strap from one of the handlebars, and shook out her hair.
8:49 a.m.
Should have gotten here earlier. On the phone, Hayden had sounded like the kind of man who had no time for bullshit. She’d lost interviews before for being just a minute or two late.
“Do not screw this one up,” her editor had told her yesterday. “This one has to be good. It’s going to be the new Roe v Wade, Obergefell, or Cason v United States.”
Carlo said that about every big story, but Jessica thought he might be right this time.
“Back away from the gate and the road,” came a female voice from one of the Dragonflies’ loudspeakers. “Protestors must maintain at least fifty feet from the guard shack and entering vehicles. I repeat: back away from the road and the gate.”
Several of the protesters turned to look at the Dragonflies, but then they resumed their chanting, a mix of two slogans: “Health for families! Health for women!” from the left side, and “Keep your legislation off of my body!” from the right. Jessica was amused to see people on both sides carrying signs that demanded the government tell the truth about Genovirus-1—the so-called “Samford Virus.” It was a favorite conspiracy theory among both pro- and anti-SRP activists to blame the other side for purposefully releasing the virus on humanity some fifty years ago.
The Genovirus-1 pandemic was directly responsible for the implementation of Safe Reproductive Practices in the United States and around the globe. The virus had emerged in Brazil and Argentina and spread all over the world within months, causing horrific birth defects and stillbirths. Jessica still remembered being in grade school and seeing images of some of the deformities for the first time: children born without eyes; portions of the skull missing so the brain was exposed; lungs missing. The only foolproof way to ensure an embryo remained unexposed to the virus was to use an artificial uterus—a relatively new invention at the time, affordable only to the most affluent of parents who were willing to drop three million dollars or more for the privilege. With the virus running rampant, the 30th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution effectively nationalized the science behind artificial uteri and made them free—and mandatory—for all births. China was next, followed by India, Australia, and most of South America. When the European Union finally accepted the necessity five years later, the U.N. began imposing bans on travel and trade with nations that still allowed natural child births. A safe and healthy birth was declared the first of all human rights—chronologically, at least—and military interventions were authorized in places—primarily the religious oligarchies in the Middle East and severely underdeveloped nations in Africa—that refused to ensure it.
“Anyone who refuses to back away from the road,” warned the female voice again, “will be subdued and arrested.”
The drones formed circles around the crowds and made mechanical noises as small compartments on their bellies opened and lowered what looked like guns. Sedative darts. Jessica had seen them used at a riot in Washington last month. The tranquilizer was slow-acting so that victims didn’t drop immediately and injure themselves. At the riot, people shot would try to run away only to find they could barely walk. After a few minutes, they’d sit down or drop to their hands and knees, and then finally lie down and sleep.
The gate opened, a car drove through, and the line moved up. The road inclined downward slightly, so Jessica put her bike into neutral and let it roll forward.
The crowds on either side began to shift backwards, the drones circling around them like herd dogs. The Dragonflies settled to the ground. Their long, narrow black wings folded upwards as they landed.
When the last car ahead of her passed through the gate, Jessica started her motor and pulled up to the guard shack window.
“I'll need to see your Reproduction Permit or the receipt for your application,” the old attendant said, looking not at her but at the crowd to Jessica’s right.
After she parked, Jessica followed a family of four through the huge main entrance, glass and steel towering over them and reflecting the morning sun. Two moms and a dad accompanied a pretty girl sporting a shaved head. The group chattered in animated voices.
“I can’t believe they used to carry around babies in their bellies,” said the girl. “Like animals!”
Automatic double doors opened for them to enter, and a wave of cool, sterile-smelling air exhaled from inside.
“That’s nature’s way,” said one of the women.
The girl murmured something that sounded like disgust.
Jessica followed the family into the vestibule, which had walls of polished granite. Halfway to the ceiling, two glass-covered walkways bridged the gap from one side of the room to the other. As Jessica watched, several people wearing lab-coats walked across the bridges in small groups. None of them looked down to the floor below.
Jessica followed the family to the reception desk, where a young man with black tattoos in a tribal pattern on his face and neck smiled to greet them.
“Hello,” he said. “You have an appointment with Dr. Whitlock?”