"Robert Reed - Game of the Century" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reed Robert)

ROBERT REED

GAME OF THE CENTURY

THE WINDOW WAS LEFT OPEN at midnight, January 1, 2041, and three minutes,
twenty-one seconds later it was closed again by the decisive, barely legible
signature of an elderly Supreme Court justice who reportedly quipped, "I don't
know why I have to. Folks who like screwing sheep are just going to keep at it."

Probably so.

But the issues were larger than traditional bestiality. Loopholes in some badly
drafted legislation had made it perfectly legal to manipulate the human genome
in radical ways. What's more, said offspring were deemed human in all rights and
privileges inside the US of NA. For two hundred and twelve seconds, couples and
single women could legally conceive by any route available to modem science. And
while few clinics and fewer top-grade hospitals had interest in the work, there
were key exceptions. Some fourteen hundred human eggs were fertilized with
tailored sperm, then instantly implanted inside willing mothers. News services
that had paid minimal attention to the legislative breakdown took a sudden
glaring interest in the nameless, still invisible offspring. The blastulas were
dubbed the 1-1-2041s, and everything about their lives became the subject of
intense public scrutiny and fascination and self-righteous horror.

Despite computer models and experiments on chimpanzees, there were surprises.
Nearly a third of the fetuses were stillborn, or worse. Twenty-nine mothers were
killed as a result of their pregnancies. Immunological problems, mostly. But in
one case, a healthy woman in her midtwenties died when her boy, perhaps bothered
by the drumming of her heart, reached through her uterine wall and intestines,
grabbing and squeezing the offending organ with both of his powerful hands.

Of the nine hundred-plus fetuses who survived, almost thirty percent were
mentally impaired or physically frail. Remarkably, others seemed entirely
normal, their human genes running roughshod over their more exotic parts. But
several hundred of the 1-1-2041s were blessed with perfect health as well as a
remarkable stew of talents. Even as newborns, they astonished the researchers
who tested their reflexes and their highly tuned senses. The proudest parents
released the data to the media, then mixed themselves celebratory cocktails,
stepping out onto their porches and balconies to wait for the lucrative offers
to start flowing their way.

MARLBORO JONES came with a colorful reputation. His father was a crack dealer
shot dead in a dispute over footwear. With his teenage mother, Marlboro had
lived at dozens of addresses before her mind failed and she leaped out of their
bedroom window to stop the voices, and from there his life was a string of
unbroken successes. He had coached, and won, at three different schools. He was
currently the youngest head coach of a Top Alliance team. Thirty-six years old,
he looked twenty-six, his chiseled features built around the bright, amoral eyes
of a squirrel. Marlboro was the kind of handsome that made his charm appealing,
and he was charming in a way that made his looks and mannerisms delightfully