But the sounds never came. André started quizzing Ron on things like the number of spare universal jets in case one should go out (three), backup ACRU units (two portable NEMMs), and warranty (two years). Not bad for a used vehicle. I opened one eye to see that we were entering the cavern portion of the obstacle course. I quickly shut my eye again. That was when André started his negotiations-both of the cave passages and of the price.
I heard the occasional ping of the warning sensors and felt the almost instantaneous adjustments my son made in speed, orientation, and direction. In the background, André and Ron continued their bargaining while I cringed deeper into the passenger seat. It was amazingly comfortable.
‘You can open your eyes now, Mom,’ André said, and I realized that I had actually started to relax. “We’re out of the hazard course and almost back to the dealership lot.”
I blinked my eyes open to see that he was right. We were almost back, and André was driving at a safe, respectable pace, observing all of the traffic laws of the sea.
“Did you hear the final price, Mom?’ André said with a note of uncertain hope in his voice.
“No,” I said, bracing myself for sticker shock and already preparing for the unpleasant task of talking my son out of the sub he had so obviously fallen in love with. Ron quoted me the number of credits, which was, as I had suspected, higher than the amount we had budgeted for, but not nearly as high as I had expected. It was, in fact, quite reasonable, considering the sub’s excellent condition, well thought-out safety features, and luxury options. But André was a teenager. He didn’t really need to start out with all those bells and whistles. In fact, it would probably do him good to start with a more humble vehicle. I certainly had.
Just as André was about to start his turn into the sub lot, a plump green SPig came barreling out at us. It shouldn’t have been much of a problem considering that SPigs can do no more than thirty at their top speed, but its teenage driver was distracted. The young man, obviously not paying attention, had turned to speak with someone in the back seat and hadn’t seen us yet.
The path of the other vessel would intersect ours dead on. I drew in a sharp breath and stifled a scream just as the other driver noticed us and began frantically trying to maneuver in another direction. But his ungainly vehicle refused to cooperate. I heard a strangled yelp from Ron in the back. André, meanwhile, seemed completely unfazed as the warning signal began to ping. I slapped my hands over my eyes, but then spread my fingers and watched in terrified fascination.
Tapping the brake rotors, André twirled the gyro steering downward and threw the upper and side attitude adjustment jets on full so that we dove directly beneath the wallowing SPig. Instead of a jarring crash that would likely have disabled both vehicles, all I heard was the tiniest squeak as the SPig’s bulky rudder scratched against our hull for a bare fraction of a second.
Once clear of the other minisub, André steered the Subatomic on a slow, gentle curve back into the dealership and parked it at its original slot while I struggled to breathe normally again.
This was no time for debate. I knew what I had to do. André had wanted to make the final decision, but he couldn’t afford this choice without me.
“We’ll take it,’ I said. I glanced at André. ‘We’ll split the cost.”
The next day was Friday and, as promised, André swung by to pick up his little sister Reina from aquaballet on his way home from school. Howard and the rest of the submarine fishing fleet were home from their expedition with a large catch, so the four of us-
Howard, Reina, André, and I-had dinner as a family for a change.
André regaled us all with the tale of the previous day’s shopping expedition and test drive, as well as the story of his first day at school with his new minisub.
“You drove a good bargain, son,” Howard said with an admiring chuckle. “Literally. Why don’t we all go out for a spin after supper?”
‘Could, uh, could that wait for tomorrow?” André said, his face growing pink. “I kind of have a date tonight.”
“Who with?” Reina blurted. “Do I know her? Does she go to your school?”
Howard cleared his throat, cutting off the stream of questions. “Don’t stay out too late, son.”
‘I won’t.” André wiped his mouth with a napkin and excused himself from the table. “I promised Mr. Martinez I’d have Etsuko home early.”
I stared at my son in amazement. André was going out without us, on his first date alone. Howard grinned like the proud father he was. I, however, was not quite ready to let go. “Wait. What kind of date? Where are you going?” I asked as he headed for the front floor hatch where the Subatomic was parked.
He turned, grinned at me, and shrugged. “Where else, Mom? To watch the submarine races.”
GOOD GENES by Kristine Kathryn Rusch
When Alden was six weeks old, the doctor called them into his office. Ro didn’t want to go. She had a feeling that something was wrong. None of her friends had ever been called to a doctor’s office, especially when there had been no check-up previously, no tests, nothing that would seem out of the ordinary.
Ro’s husband, Gil, reassured her, but he didn’t sound sincere. He didn’t meet her eyes any more, and his ruddy face looked even more flushed than usual. He too knew that things were wrong. They bundled up the baby, whom Ro privately thought too small to be named after his famous great-grandfather, and went to the scheduled appointment.
The doctor’s office was a different place than the waiting room. Ro had been comfortable with the waiting room. It was designed for pregnant women: large, comfortable chairs with good back support, footstools, and a gas fireplace that was in constant use in the winter. A computer in the corner constantly played information about women’s health and reproductive news, and from any of the tables, waiting patients could easily access sites that pertained to childbirth and childrearing.
But the office was around the back of the clinic-actually in a different building altogether-and the waiting area felt like the waiting area of a lawyer or accountant. There was one large window with a spectacular view of the parking lot, and a less spectacular view of the lake across the street and the mountains beyond. The chairs were straight-backed with no armrests, and weren’t wide enough for Alden’s carrier. With some hesitation, Ro put the sleeping baby on the floor.
She leaned over and played with his curly black hair. His tiny fists were curled against his sleeper, the soft blue blanket her parents had given him tucked beneath his chin. She had no idea how this beautiful boy with his dark brown eyes, chocolate skin, and delicate features could be ill. He was developing the way he was supposed to, he ate well, although he still did not sleep through the night.
Gil paced, and somehow that reassured her: if Gil was nervous, then she had a right to be nervous too. Only she didn’t tell him-couldn’t tell him-one of the sources of her nervousness. She didn’t want to be the mother of a sickly child. She had seen those mothers, with their vaguely frantic air despite their protestations that everything was fine and under control. She had seen the despair in their eyes, the way they clung to their babies as if determination alone could prevent whatever tragedy was ahead.
She had clung to Alden that way on the drive over, and had been ashamed of herself. She didn’t even know what the doctor was going to say.
Finally, the androgynous automated voice announced that the doctor was ready to see them. The door to his office swung open, and she grabbed Alden’s carrier, wishing once again that she was in the waiting room at the clinic, where real people called her name and opened the door, and gave her a reassuring smile as they led her into an unfamiliar room.