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eBook Category: Science Fiction Nebula Award(R) Nominee
eBook Description: What is it that makes a man a father?

eBook Publisher: Fictionwise.com, Published: L. Ron Hubbard Presents Writers of the Future Volume XIV, ed. Dave Wolverton, 1998
Fictionwise Release Date: April 2002

31 Reader Ratings:

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Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: eReader (PDB) [25 KB] , ePub (EPUB) [32 KB] , Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [11 KB] , Portable Document Format (PDF) [57 KB] , Palm Doc (PDB) [12 KB] , Microsoft Reader (LIT) [63 KB] , Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [84 KB] , hiebook (KML) [57 KB] , Sony Reader (LRF) [39 KB] , iSilo (PDB) [10 KB] , Mobipocket (PRC) [13 KB] , Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [40 KB] , OEBFF Format (IMP) [20 KB]
Words: 3507
Reading time: 10-14 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Portable Document Format (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

"In 'The Disappearance of Josie Andrew,' author Ron Collins explores some ramifications of advances in reproductive technology. The "artificial womb" motif is a popular one in science fiction, and a personal favorite; I admire his choice to tell the story from an oblique angle--instead of the usual parent or scientist, the protagonist here is a janitor/technician at a large (and spectacularly unethical) institution. Collins takes the time to suggest, delicately, the awesome potential of human life and the tragedy of its loss. The story is rather morbid and set in a very anti-choice atmosphere ... but I appreciate it anyway. It certainly sticks in my memory. I like the idea of small people and small changes being able to make a big difference. Creepy, but another favorite.--Elizabeth Barrette, Tangent Online (Learn more about Tangent Online, the Internet's leading SF&F short fiction review website)

A new child floats in my section today. He's number B86-97 and he feeds from tube twenty-eight, about halfway up, his shoulder pressed flat against the glass. I look at his chart. He's an early second tri who still weighs less than a pound. That tells me all I need to know.

His mother was cranked.

Tube twenty-eight. The number echoes in my thoughts like a distant police siren in the middle of the night. I came to the office this morning ready to sing, but now I want to be doing almost anything else. It is not B86-97's fault though, and I try hard not to blame him for my suddenly foul mood.

The uterine chamber is over four meters in diameter and three meters high. It sits in the middle of the darkened office, its three-finger-thick Plexiglas sides held together by evenly spaced steel rods. Filtration hardware is crammed into its base, a half-meter-tall section of dusty black motors and tubes that smell faintly of warm machine oil. An aluminum hand-ladder mounted to the chamber's side leads to the insulated stainless cap, complete with a round hatch for fishing kids out at birthing time.

Inside the chamber, the children float in synthetic amniotic fluid that is corn syrup golden. Vertical columns of soft lighting illuminate the chamber from within, allowing for proper monitoring but not radically altering the children's growth process. Occasional bubbles rise through the fluid, weaving their way through masses of arms and legs and tiny heads with closed eyes and open mouths. The chamber is heated by elements that rise from the floor like brittle stalagmites, or perhaps like iron rods in a medieval torture chamber.

Warmth flows into my hand.

Ninety-six children are in my chamber today.

The steady throb of heartbeats resonates through speakers embedded in the stainless caps: false sounds of a nonexistent mother. They echo in the morning silence.

The vibrations are supposed to make the children comfortable. I guess they work. But the heartbeats ring hollowly inside me today. A taste of desperation coats my mouth.

I put my palm against the Plexiglas where B86-97 floats. Warmth flows into my hand.

I smile despite the pain this child unwittingly brings me. "Good morning, Kyle," I say. That is the name I give to B86-97. Kyle Lincoln. I gaze into his tightly scrunched face and say his name three times inside my head to make sure I will remember it. I've never been good with equations or history or economics--or anything like that. But I can put a name to a face.

I pull my hand back, the heat of the chamber lingering like a stolen kiss.

Kyle Lincoln is curled around tube twenty-eight, absentmindedly fingering its connection to his belly.

Josie Andrew was on that tube yesterday.