"Robert Reed - The Children's Crusade" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reed Robert)

The autodoc supplied my answer. With a smooth voice and a wet-nurse's software, it told me, "The odds
of infection are approximately one in two. And if it was the Irrawaddy virus, the odds of damage to a
thirty-nine week fetus are less than three in eleven."

Our doctor would have preferred to deliver that news. Even in my panic, I noticed the bristling in her
body language. But she kept her poise. Without faltering, she set her hand on my wife's hand. I think that
was the first time during the visit that she actually touched Hanna. And with a reassuring music, she said,
"We're going to do our best. For you and for your daughter."

About that next thirty minutes, I remember everything.

There was a purposeful sprint by nurses and autodocs as well as our doctor and her two human partners.
The largest examination room was transformed into a surgical suite, every surface sterilized with bursts of
ionized radiation and withering desiccants. Hanna was plied with tubes and fed cocktails of medicines
and microsensors. Needing something to do, I sent a web-flash to family and friends, carefully
downplaying my worsening fears. And then I was wrapped inside a newly made gown and cap and led
into the suite, finding Hanna already laid out on a table with her arms spread wide and tied down at the
wrists. Some kind of medical crucifixion was in progress. She was sliced open, a tidy hole at her waist
rimmed with burnt blood and bright white fat. I could smell the blood. I overheard the doctor warning
Hanna about some impending pressure. And all the while, the autodoc worked over her, those clean
sleek limbs moving with an astonishing speed and a perfect, seamless grace.

Thirty seconds later, my daughter was born.

With a nod to custom, our doctor was allowed to cut the cord.

Then both professionals worked with my daughter, stealing bits of skin and blood for tests, and in
another few momentsтАФa few hours, it felt likeтАФthey decided that Hanna's cold had been a cold and
nothing more.

The autodoc began gluing my wife back together, and with a congratulatory smile, the doctor handed my
baby to me. Veronica, named after her mother's mother. I had just enough time to show the screaming
baby to Hanna, and then the ambulance arrived, flying the three of us to a hospital room where we could
start coming to terms with the changes in our lives.

Veronica slept hard for hours, swaddled tight in a little blanket infused with helpful bacteria and proven
antibodies. Hanna drifted into a shallow sleep, leaving me alone. I was holding my child, and the room's
web-window was wandering on its own, searching for items that might interest me, and there was this
odd little news item about a fifteen-year-old boy in FranceтАФa bright and handsome young man blessed
with rich parents and a flair for public speaking. Standing in a mostly empty auditorium, Philippe Rule was
announcing the launch of some kind of private space program.

It involved Mars, I halfway heard.

But honestly, I wasn't paying attention. I was too busy holding my happy, healthy daughter, watching her
eyes twitch as she dreamed her secret dreams.



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