Robert Reed - Game of the Century

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2024-11-23 0 0 59.42KB 29 页 5.9玖币

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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

boyish. A laser mind lurked behind those eyes, yet in most circumstances he

preferred playing the cultured hick, knowing how much it improved his odds.

"He's a fine lookin' boy," the coach drawled. "Fine lookin'."

The proud parents stood arm in arm, smiling with a frothy, nervous joy.

"May I?" asked Marlboro. Then without waiting for permission, he yanked the

screen off the crib, reached in and grabbed both bare feet. He tugged once, then

again. Harder. "Damn, look at those legs! You'd think this boy'd be scampering

around already. Strong as these seem...!"

"Well," said his mother, "he is awfully active."

"In a good way," the father cautioned.

"I believe it. I do!" Marlboro grinned, noticing that Mom looked awfully sweet

in a tired-of-motherhood way, and it was too bad that he couldn't make a play

for her, too. "Let me tell ya what I'm offering," he boomed. "A free ride. For

the boy here --"

"Alan," Mom interjected.

"Alan," the coach repeated. Instantly, with an easy affection. Then he gave her

a little wink, saying, "For Alan. A free education and every benefit that I'm

allowed to give. Plus the same for your other two kids. Which I'm not supposed

to offer. But it's my school and my scholarships, and I'll be damned if it's

anybody's business but yours and mine!"

The parents squeezed one another, then with a nervous voice, the father made

himself ask, "What about us?"

The coach didn't blink.

"What do you want, Mr. Wilde?" Marlboro smiled and said, "Name it."

"I'm not sure," the father confessed. "I know that we can't be too obvious --"

"But we were hoping," Mom blurted. "I mean, it's not like we're wealthy people.

And we had to spend most of our savings --"

"On your little Alan. I bet you did." A huge wink was followed with, "It'll be

taken care of. My school doesn't have that big college of genetics for nothing."

He looked at the infant again, investing several seconds of hard thought into

how they could bend the system just enough. Then he promised, "You'll be

reimbursed for your expenses. Up front. And we'll put your son on the payroll.

Gentlefolks in lab coats'll come take blood every half-year or so. For a

healthy, just-under-the-table fee. How's that sound?"

The father seemed doubtful. "Will the scientists agree to that?"

"If I want it done," the coach promised.

"Will they actually use his blood?" The father seemed uneasy. Even a little

disgusted. "I don't like thinking of Alan being some kind of laboratory

project."

Marlboro stared at him for a long moment.

Never blinking.

Then he said, "Sir." He said, "If you want, they can pass those samples to you,

and you can flush them down your own toilet. Is that good enough?"

Nobody spoke.

Then he took a different course, using his most mature voice to tell them, "Alan

is a fine, fine boy. But you've got to realize something. He's going to have

more than his share of problems. Special kids always do." Then with a warm

smile, Marlboro promised, "I'll protect him for you. With all my resources and

my good country sense, I'll see that none of those predators out there get their

claws in your little Alan.

"Mom said, "That's good to hear. That's fine."

But Father shrugged, asking, "What about you? It'll be years before Alan can

actually play, and you could have left for the pros by then."

"Never," Marlboro blurted.

Then he gave the woman his best wink and grin, saying, "You know what kind of

talent I've been signing up. Do you really think I'd go anywhere else? Ever?"

She turned to her husband, saying, "We'll sign."

"But --?"

"No. We're going to commit."

Marlboro reconfigured the appropriate contracts, getting everyone's signature.

Then he squeezed one of his recruit's meaty feet, saying, "See ya later, Alan."

Wearing an unreadable smile, he stepped out the front door. A hundred or so

sports reporters were gathered on the small lawn, and through their cameras, as

many as twenty million fans were watching the scene.

They watched Coach Jones smile and say nothing. Then he raised his arms

suddenly, high overhead, and screamed those instantly famous words:

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Robert Reed - Game of the Century

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