Otherness (7 page)

Reiko had not understood, either then or now. But Yumi had seemed to comprehend. "It is not a question, then, of whether East or West shall win, is it, Father?"

"No," he had said. "There will definitely be a synthesis. The only question remaining is what
type
of synthesis it shall be. Will it be one of power? Or one of wisdom?"

The next day Tetsuo apologized without words. Reiko forgave him and moved back into their bedroom.

Technicians visited them twice a week now. Reiko wondered how they would ever pay for such attention, until Tetsuo told her that the Clinic was refunding all costs. They were special. They would make this process famous throughout the world.

At times Reiko worried that the baby would not be recognizable when he emerged. Would he wear an expression of sage wisdom from the very start, and stare into space thinking great thoughts? Would he spill from the womb already fully forged into that intimidating, imperious creature, an adult male? Would he even need her love?

Hope
also came and went in tempo with those waves of feeling deep within her. Every peak and trough of emotion left her confused and drained. She was glad that it would all be over soon.

Reiko met the other wives in the special group. Some of them were knowledgeable, more confident than she. Mrs. Sukimura, in particular, seemed so relaxed and assured. She was the furthest along. Already the Pak techs were ecstatic with the results from her child. They spoke of data-transfer rates, of frequency and phase filtering, of Fourier transforms and pattern recognition.

At one point all of the women were picked up by limousines and taken downtown to MITI, the all-powerful Ministry of Trade and Industry, on Sakurada-Dor Avenue. In a great hall, technicians attached mesh girdles and gently, tenderly wheeled them close to mammoth, chilled machines.

Computers
, Reiko thought. They were using powerful computers to
talk
to the fetuses!

When the Minister himself appeared, Reiko blinked in astonishment. His eminence shook Tetsuo's hand. Reiko felt faint.

12.

They were pledged to secrecy, of course. If the gaijin newspapers got hold of this too soon, there would be hell to pay. Worldwide media attention before the right preparations had been made would shame the nation, even though it was really none of the business of outsiders.

Others were already jealous of Japan in so many ways. And Westerners tended to insist that theirs was the only morality. So Tetsuo and Reiko signed their chops to a document. There was talk of a leave of absence from Tetsuo's company, and an important post when he returned. He spoke to her of buying a larger house in a better neighborhood.

"One of our problems has been in the field of
software
," he explained one evening, though Reiko knew he was talking mostly to himself. "Our engineers have been very clever in practical technology, leaving most of the world far behind in many areas. But computer programming has turned out to be very hard. There seems to be no conventional way of catching up with the Americans there. Your father used to claim that it had to do with our system of education."

Tetsuo laughed derisively. "Japanese education is the finest in all the world. The toughest. The most demanding!"

"What . . .?" she asked. "What does this have to do with the babies?"

"They are geniuses at programming!" Tetsuo cried. "Already they have cracked problems that have stymied hundreds of our best software designers. Of course they do not understand what they are doing, but that does not seem to matter. It is all a matter of asking questions in just the right ways and letting them innovate.

"For instance, the unborn have yet no concept of distance or motion. But that turns out to be an advantage, you see, for they have no preconceptions. They bring fresh insight, without being burdened by our worldly assumptions. So one of our young engineers solved a vexing problem for the Ministry of Trade, while another has developed an entirely new model of traffic control that should reduce downtown congestion by five percent!"

Tetsuo's eyes held a glow, a wild flicker that gave Reiko a chill. "
Zuibun joozo desu, ne
?" he said, in admiration of that accomplishment by an unborn child. "As for our son," Tetsuo went on, "he is being asked even more challenging questions about transportation systems. And I am certain he will make us proud."

So, Reiko thought. It was even worse than she had imagined. This was more than
juku
, more than just another form of cram-education. Her child was being put to work before he was born. And there was nothing at all she could do about it.

Guiltily, Reiko wasn't even sure she should try.

13.

A Klein bottle . . . she knew the name in a dream
.

It was what one called that bizarre thing—a container with two openings and none at all . . . whose inside was its outside
.

14.

When Mrs. Sukimura's time came, they knew of it only by the fact that she did not join the others at the computer center.
Ah, well
, Reiko thought. At least the respite was coming soon.

Traditionally, childbirth in many parts of Japan was done by appointment, during business hours. A woman scheduled a day with her obstetrician, when she would check into the hospital and receive the drugs to induce labor. It was all very civilized and much more predictable than the way it apparently was done in the West.

But for the women of the test group, matters were different. So important was the work the fetuses were doing that it was decided to wait as long as possible, to let the babies come as late as they wanted.

The reason given was "birth trauma." Apparently, emerging into the outer world robbed even the most talented fetuses of their small but potent psychic powers. After that they would lapse to being babies again. Talented, well-tutored babies, but babies nonetheless.

The MITI technicians regretted this, but it would certainly be no "trauma" to her. To Reiko this coming return to ignorance would be a gift from the blessed Buddha himself.

Oh, it would be strange to have a genius son. But they had promised her that he would still be a little boy. She would tickle him and make him laugh. She would hold him when he tripped and cried. She would bathe in his sweet smile and he would love her. She would see to that.

Genius did not have to mean soullessness. She knew that from having met a few of her father's students over the years. There had been one boy . . . her father had wanted Reiko to go out with him instead of Tetsuo, years ago. Everyone said he was brilliant, and he had a nice smile and personality.

If only he had not also had the habit of eating red meat too often. It made him smell bad, like an American.

And anyway, by then she had already fallen in love with Tetsuo.

One by one other women dropped out of their group, to be replaced by newcomers who looked to Reiko now for advice and reassurance. Her own time would be very soon, of course. In fact, she was already more than a week overdue when she went to the hospital for another examination, and one of the doctors left his clipboard on the counter when he went to answer a telephone call.

Reiko suddenly felt daring. She reached out and turned the clipboard, hoping to see her own chart. But it was only a list of patients on the doctor's other ward.

Then she frowned. Mrs. Sukimura's name was on the list! Three weeks after her delivery, which they'd been told had been uneventful.

Reiko recognized other names. In fact, nearly all of the women who had gone into labor before her were under care on the next floor.

The baby churned in response to her racing heart. Footsteps told of the doctor's return, so Reiko put back the clipboard and sat down again with an effort to remain outwardly calm.

"If you don't begin labor by the end of the month, we will induce it," he told her upon completing his tests. "The delay was approved by your husband, of course. There is nothing to worry about."

Reiko barely heard his words. What concerned her was the plan beginning to form in her mind. For her it would call for daring to the point of recklessness.

Fortunately, she had worn Western dress for her visit to the hospital. A kimono would have been too conspicuous. At first she had considered trying to borrow a doctor's white coat to wear over her street clothes. After all, there were some female physicians here. She had seen a few.

But her protruding belly and slow waddle would have made the imposture absurd, even if she did encounter a white coat just lying around to be taken.

She did still have the gray gown they had given her to wear during the examination. This she kept balled inside her purse. In the ladies' room she put the loose garment on over her street clothes. People tended to look right past patients on a ward. The uniform was a partial cloak of invisibility.

First she tried the lifts. But the elevator operator looked at her when she asked to be taken to floor eight. "May I please see your pass?" the young woman asked Reiko politely.

"I misspoke, forgive me," Reiko said, bowing to hide her fluster. "I mean to say floor nine."

On exiting the lift she rested against the wall for a while to catch her breath. The extra weight she carried every moment of every hour was a burden on her overstrained back, sheer torture if she did not maintain just the right erect posture. Soon it would be time to spill her child into the world. And yet she was beginning to dread the idea with a sick, mortal fear.

A nurse asked if she needed help.

"
Iye, Kekko desu
," Reiko answered quickly. "
Gomen nasal Ikimashoo
."

Giving her a doubtful glance, the nurse turned away. Reiko waddled slowly toward the clearly marked fire exit, looked around to make sure she wasn't being observed, and pushed her way into the stairwell.

Her shoes made soft scraping sounds on the rough, high-traction surface of the steps. Under her left hand her womb was a center of furious activity as the baby kicked and turned. By the time she reached the eighth-floor landing, the guard stationed there had already risen from his little stool.

"May I help you?" he asked perplexedly.

Certainly, honorable sir
, Reiko thought sarcastically.
Please be so kind as to open the door for me, and then forget that I ever came this way
.

The guard frowned. Twice he began to speak, then stopped. His confused expression was soon matched by Reiko's own amazement as he blinked several times, then reached back to turn the knob and pull the portal aside for her.

"
Doozo . . . ohairi kudasai
. . ."

"
Ee, itachakimasu
," Reiko answered breathlessly. She rocked through the opening in a daze until the door was closed behind her again. Then she sagged back and sighed.

For a few moments, there in the stairwell, she had felt something fey radiating from her womb. Her child had reached out in her time of need, and
helped
Reiko . . . probably without having any idea exactly what he was doing. Nevertheless, he had helped her.

Love
. She had always believed it had power transcending all the cold metal tools men were so proud of. All the more so the love between a mother and her child.

I must find out what is going on here
, she knew.
I must
.

Fortunately, security in the hospital seemed to have only one layer, as if the owners of this place expected a mere ribbon of courtesy to suffice. And under normal circumstances it would have been more than enough.

Reiko did not have to show great agility or dodge quickly from room to room. The halls were nearly empty, and the few people on duty at the nurses' station were turned away in a technical discussion as she hurried out of sight.

She came to a large window facing the hallway. Within were the familiar shapes of a neonatal unit—rows of tiny white cots, monitoring instruments, a bored male nurse reading a newspaper.

Babies.

They look healthy enough
, she thought, nurturing a slender shoot of a smile. There appeared to be no monsters here, just pink newborn little boys, each of them looking very much like a tiny, chubby Buddha . . . or that English prime minister, Churchill.

Reiko's nascent smile faded, however, when she realized that the children were moving hardly at all. And then she saw that every one of them was connected by taped electrodes to a cluster of cables. The cables led to a bank of tall machines by the far wall.

Computers. And the babies, staring with open eyes, hardly moved at all.

"
Wakarimasen
," Reiko moaned, shaking her head. "I don't understand!"

15.

The plate by the door read "Sukimura." Reiko listened and, hearing no voices, slipped inside.

"Reiko-san!"

The woman in the chair looked healthy, fully recovered. She stood up and hurried over to take Reiko's hand. "Reiko-san, what are you doing here? They told us—"

"Us? They have all of the others? Will they keep me here, too, when my time comes?"

Mrs. Sukimura nodded and looked away. "They are kind. We . . . we are allowed to nurse our babies while they work."

"
Work
," Reiko measured the word. "But the birth trauma . . . it should return the children to innocence! They promised. . . ."

"They found a technique to
prevent
it, Reiko-san. Our babies were all born wise. They are
engineers
, doing great work for the good of the realm. It is even said that the palace may take notice, it is so important."

Reiko was aghast. "Do they plan to leave them hooked up to wires forever?"

"Oh, no, no. The doctors say this will not harm our sons. They say they will still be all right." And yet a hollow tone in her voice betrayed Mrs. Sukimura's true feelings.

"But then, Izumi-san," Reiko said, "what is wrong?"

"They are mistaken!" the older woman cried. "The men say we are silly, superstitious women. They say that the babies are all healthy . . . that they will lead normal lives. But oh, Reiko-San, they have no
kami
! They have no souls!"