The Facilitator

THE FACILITATOR

 

CHAPTER 3

 

The Walker Birth

 

            I looked at my holoscreen, which had begun to chime an alarm.  Where had the afternoon gone?  If I didn’t get it together, I would be late for the Birth Ceremony at the Government Maternity Hospital.

            Once again, I found myself strapping into the jetpack, and shooting out across the city.  When on official Facilitator Duty, the paths are cleared, so I had a clear flight to the GMH, reaching it by close to 4 in the afternoon.  I landed on the rooftop pad, and made my way by podlift down to the basement where the Ceremony was being held.  Halfway down, I changed my mind, and commanded the Pod to stop at the Fifth Floor, which was the Maternity Ward.

            Getting out of the Pod, I strolled along, absorbing the atmosphere of this most special place.  Here, women came when it was time for them to fulfill Clause II of a standard marriage contract – the production of a child.  Here also could be found women who were serving contractual periods as Standard Breeders – producing children every 10 months for a minimum period of five years.  Standard Breeders were used by wealthy men who had infertile wives, or who wanted to expand their personal families but completely preserve their wives’ looks.  Women came to the Maternity Ward for both Type I and Type II pregnancies.  I walked past a typical Type I delivery room.  Painted in soft pastel colors, a comfortable bed with real sheets stood at the middle.  Five nurses and two doctors hovered, and in the background could be seen some of the most advanced medical machines currently on the market.  Women who carried boys had access to the best doctors and nurses.  Pain medication was liberally dispensed during delivery, C-Sections were done with nanolasers so that scarring and post-operative complications were minimized, and, best of all for many women, the delivery service and post-natal hospital stays were completely free.

            Type II deliveries were somewhat less comfortable.  Women performed the delivery of female infants in wards.  They were attended by nurses but only one junior doctor covered every five births.  C-Sections were available for emergencies only, and were done with the old-fashioned scalpel and gut stitching.  Pain medication was limited to a single dose, although additional doses could be purchased at cost price.  A standard delivery and stay in the hospital ward for two days cost $100,000, while C-Section prices could raise that cost into the millions.  This was why many females started their life already in debt.  Nevertheless, women who managed to deliver girls were still cared for … in a humane way.

            Arguably, this was not the case for those women unlucky enough to be given a Birth Ceremony.  And it was to one of these ceremonies that I was running late!

            I returned to the Pod, and ordered it to take me to the basement.  I emerged into gloomy darkness.  Cinderblock walls, painted a dull green, stretched out on both sides in front of me.  The cracked tile floor had puddles of water, and the few nuclear lights were purposely shielded so that they let out only a smear of yellow lighting.  I didn’t need light to find my way, however.  All I had to do was follow the screams.

            I pulled down some info on the patient from the NanoWeb as I walked, catching up on the sentencing and progress of the pregnancy.

            Miriam Walker was the fourth wife of a school principal.  Widowed at 28, she had been left as a bequest to the principal, who wished to have another set of children now that he had retired.  Mrs. Walker had been unsuccessful in conceiving a child for six months, and was sent to her doctor for investigation.  The physical exam was inconclusive, so Mrs. Walker was given truth serum.  Under further questioning by the doctor, she revealed that she was illicitly taking birth control pills, a Class B criminal offense.  Mrs. Walker could have been sentenced to 15 years in prison, but Mr. Walker did not want his new wife to spend time in prison.  Instead, he asked that she be given an AIM choice.  Mr. Walker selected a Level IV Birthing Ceremony.  This meant that from the list of potential symptoms, Mr. Walker chose six for his wife, and she would not be aware of any of the choices until they began to occur.  I blinked to the next page in the file, and saw the document in which they had selected her choices, highlighted in bold:

 

Mr. Walker’s Selections:

16 month pregnancy:  Woman will remain pregnant for 16 months, growing at normal rate.

Pre-eclampsia:  Woman will have symptoms of pre-eclampsia (high blood pressure, dizziness, discomfort, swollen feet) throughout pregnancy.

Third Degree Tearing:  Woman will have third degree inter-anal tearing during delivery, resulting in fecal incontinence and sexual discomfort for 9 months after delivery.

Lactation:  Woman will breastfeed for 18 months after delivery.

Morning Sickness:  Woman will suffer from severe morning sickness (cramps and vomiting) throughout pregnancy.

Clothing:  Woman will wear normal clothing and high heels throughout pregnancy.

            In addition, of course, Mrs. Walker had been collared for the past 16 months, so that any observer would know that this was a Birthing Ceremony, not a normal pregnancy.  And now her ‘due date’ had come, and the birth was being induced.

            I walked into the next room to greet the mom to be.  She was positively grotesque.  Her belly, swollen to almost unimaginable proportions, strained against a lycra miniskirt.  She was tottering in four-inch pumps, her ankles so swollen that they disappeared into her calves.  Every ten seconds or so, she doubled over, screaming, as a particularly nasty contraction cramped through her insides.

            “Good afternoon, Mrs. Walker,” I said.  “My name is Michael Wilson, and I am happy to tell you that you are within two hours of delivery.”

            She attempted to smile.  Surely, I thought, she should be relieved.  She had been here for almost 24 hours now, and the only medication she received in that time was designed to induce and increase contractions, cramping her terribly.

            “Please, sir, may I at least sit for a moment?”  I checked the file.

            “No, Mrs. Walker,” I replied.  “Your file doesn’t say anything about being allowed to sit or lie down during delivery.  Would you like me to get a chain and lash you upright?”

            “No … no … I will keep trying.”

            “Good.  How are you feeling?”

            “It hurts, really badly.  But I suppose I should be grateful that this horrible time in my life is coming to an end.”

            “The birth of a child is a wonderful moment,” I admonished her.  “It’s a shame you’re not having a child!”

            She grimaced, blushing from the shameful knowledge of what squirmed inside of her.

For the real beauty of the Birthing Ceremony wasn’t just the humiliation and discomfort that the “pregnant” women underwent while carrying.  It was what, exactly, they carried inside their wombs.

            Before it was time for the delivery, I had to ask Mrs. Walker a few official questions for the file.  Checking to make sure that the camera in the room (otherwise empty except for a metal sink, a post for the mother to grip, and a chair for an observer to sit on) was operating, I printed a document from my wrist terminal and began to read the questions, recording Mrs. Walker’s responses for later transcription.

            “How long have you been pregnant, Mrs. Walker?”

            “Ages.  I … Aaargh!”  She screamed as a wicked pain shot through her gut.  “I, I think it’s been longer than normal.”

            “Has it been sixteen months?”

            She stood there quietly for a moment, thinking, and went pale as the realization hit her.  “Yes, Sir.”  I checked the first box on the sheet.

            “Have you had the following symptoms – high blood pressure, dizziness, and swollen ankles?”

            “Yes, sir.  My blood pressure is consistently high nowadays – 150/92 at my last check.  I feel dizzy and have terrible headaches.”

            “That’s good.  You have had pre-eclampsia.  Luckily it can’t hurt what’s inside you, and should clear up in the next few months.”  She smiled weakly.

            “Next.  Have you had any morning sickness?”  She groaned.

            “It’s been pretty awful.  I throw up three or four times a day, and can’t eat much anything.”

            “Have you been on a special diet?”

            “No sir.  Mr. Walker has kept me eating spicy foods throughout the past few months.”

            “Just one last question.  What size are your breasts at the moment?”

            “They are 42-FFF, Sir.”

            “And what size bra do you wear every day?”

            “Mr. Walker has not allowed me to purchase new clothes, so I am still wearing the 35-B bras that I used to wear.  He has been kind enough to allow me to attach elastic to the back, but it really, really hurts.”  I nodded.

            “Do you have any questions for me?” I asked her.

            “Yes Sir, if I may.”  I nodded.

            “Sir, will … will my body go back to normal?”

            “I’m not sure – the file isn’t clear.  You should talk to Mr. Walker and see if he has any plans.  Certainly your body will not go back to what it was without surgical intervention – FFF breasts don’t shrink, so you’ll have some serious sagging there, and all that excess skin around your “pregnant” belly – that will take some time to go away, if ever.”  I noticed that she was crying even harder than she had been when I first came in.

            “Sir, it really hurts.  This is hell for me.”  I looked at my watch. 

            “The final contractions should begin soon, and then you’ll get to see your baby.”

            “Sir, what is it that’s inside of me?”

            “You’ll see.”

I attached a monitor to her disgustingly swollen middle.  Bending down in front of it, I set the timer to 49 minutes, and set the contractions to grow in duration and frequency.  I also set the timer for the Tearing, which would take place 90 seconds before birth.

            I patted Mrs. Walker on the cheek, and went out to get a cup of coffee, locking the door behind me as I left.  Mrs. Walker wasn’t going anywhere, and I needed my caffeine fix.  Besides, I could always watch the progress of her delivery on the NanoWeb.

            About 40 minutes later I returned.  Normally at a birth we would have doctors and nurses standing by, but at a Birthing Ceremony none of this was necessary.  The timing devices had very small medical probes that inserted into the woman’s pregnant flesh, and while this was not very comfortable, it ensured that medical disasters were unlikely. 

            Mrs. Walker was pale, her skin ashen and her eyes swollen from crying.  Her voice, when she spoke, was hoarse.  “This  is eating me alive,” she said. 

            “Yes,” I replied.  “Your baby is very active, and wants out.  Now, spread your legs, so I can insert the probe and check the baby’s progress.”  She nodded weakly and spread her legs, grimacing as I inserted a rounded probe that I had brought with me in my case.

            The probe showed that the baby was less than four inches away from birth, and that Mrs. Walker was fully dilated.  Any minute now, she would be a mother at last.

            “Mrs. Walker,” I warned her.  “In about a minute, you’re going to feel a sharp pain inside your vagina and rectum.”

            “But I hurt already down there – what’s going on?”

            “It’s nothing to be afraid of, Mrs. Walker.  Mr. Walker chose you to have a Tearing, so that is what you will be feeling.  The baby is going to split your vagina and perineum, and, I’m afraid, part of your anus.  The feeling is, well, I don’t really know.  But I’m told the feeling is quite uncomfortable.  Be brave.”

            She nodded, shaking.  “What will happen after?” she quavered.

            “Oh, you should be able to go to the bathroom normally again in about a year or so.”  She moaned.  “And adult diapers are fairly cheap, so hopefully Mr. Walker will buy you some.”

            “What about …” she stopped, weeping.

            “Sex?” She nodded miserably.

            “Some husbands release their wives from that requirement, but that tends to be if they are injured giving birth.  I doubt Mr. Walker will want to stop having intercourse with you.  I suggest you ask him for pain medication. And …” I stopped as she began to scream at the top of her lungs.  Blood suddenly poured out from between her legs, pooling in a slick and sticky mass on the floor.  The Tearing had occurred.

            “Alright, Mrs. Walker, you may sit down and raise your legs for the final push now,” I said.  Still screaming, she sat on her ass in the pool of blood and raised her legs.

            “Push, Mrs. Walker, your baby needs to come out!”  She gasped, grunted, and with an almighty heave, trembling in every limb, pushed again.

            Out popped a shiny black oval, covered in spiked knobs and coated in blood.  Mrs. Walker screamed and screamed at the sight of the monstrosity.

            “Here’s your baby!” I said, unable to control my laughter.  “This is the creature that has made your life hell for the past 16 months.”

            That is what happened with Birthing Ceremonies.  16 months ago, just after sentencing, Mr. Walker inserted a vaginal suppository inside Mrs. Walker while she slept.  Inside of the suppository was the Nanoseed of this robot, which quickly implanted itself inside her uterus.  Over the next 16 months, the robot grew to its birth weight of 13 pounds.  It was capable of, and had indeed performed, numerous feats of dexterity inside the womb.  It could imitate kicks like a human fetus, and every few days either released a small burst of neurotoxin that caused nausea and weakness to its host, or, in the alternative, a set of powerful electric shocks that mimicked labor pains.  I knew from her file that Mrs. Walker had come in to the GMH regularly over the past 7 months, convinced that she was going into labor.  Each time she underwent a humiliating and uncomfortable pelvic exam, before being sent back to her husband with a bill for $5,000.

            I approached Mrs. Walker, cradling the robot in my arms.  She scuttled away from me, whimpering.  “Take it away from me,” she pleaded.  “I never want to see it again!”  I shook my head.

            “Take off your top, Mrs. Walker” I ordered.  She shook her head, but her trembling fingers undid the buttons.

            “And the bra, Mrs. Walker.”  She actually looked relieved to remove the pinching, cutting lace from her massive breasts.  They flopped forward obscenely, welted from the pressure of her old bra.

            “Mrs. Walker, your husband selected lactation.”  She looked at me, puzzled.

            “That means you’re going to be breastfeeding for the next 18 months – 30 minutes, every 2 hours, 24 hours a day, seven days a week.”

            “But, but, I don’t have a baby!”

            “Yes you do.  It’s just not human.”

I approached with a large syringe.  “This will hurt, but it’s necessary to induce lactation.”  It was a cocktail with an acidic base and a mixture of female growth hormones.  I injected half the syringe into each nipple, and they immediately began to puff up.  I handed her the robot, and she began to moan as her exhausted arms supported its weight.  I flipped a switch on a remote control I carried, and deep inside the robot, circuits switched on and its Nanobrain took over.

            A cover slid back on one side of the oval, and a two-pronged metal rod emerged.  One prong ended in a pincer, the other in a hollow tube that was lined with diamond-capped points.  The pincer shot out and grabbed hold of Mrs. Walker’s right nipple, pinching and twisting.  She screamed, but this was comfort itself compared to what happened next – the tube slid forward and fastened to her left nipple, where it began a rotating suction.  Within moments, a pink-tinged milk began to flow into the robot.

            “15 minutes each side, Mrs. Walker.  If you fail to switch the robot, my Department will be immediately warned, and you will become eligible for completion of your 15 year prison sentence.  The robot will play an alarm every 30 minutes, and if you do not have it fastened to your breast within two minutes of the alarm going off, then we will be notified as well.”

            “What about my job?” she asked.

            “You had better quit,” I replied.  “Or take your baby to work.”

I gathered my things and began to head for the door.  As I reached, I turned back to see how the new mother and baby were bonding.  The robot suckled away contentedly, while Mrs. Walker rocked back and forth, blood still pooling beneath her ruined genitalia.

            “Oh, one last thing,” I remarked, over my shoulder.  “You have about 10 minutes to clean this room up and clear out.  We have Mrs. Jefferson coming in at 5:15 for her birth.”