that we could transplant the embryo into a host mother. On the other hand, we could use tissue-reconstruction to stimulate your own cells so that they’d develop a viable placenta. In fact, the Ethics Committee might take the view that the one thing we can’t do is to treat the fetus as if it were a tumor—they could well conclude that an operation to remove it would count as an abortion, in which case it would be illegal by reason of the twenty-week time-limit.
“As far as I can tell, the fetus is at the same developmental stage one would expect of a twenty-four- or twenty-five-week embryo. It’s smaller, of course, but I have no evidence to suggest that it’s damaged. In my experience, Ethics Committees always look for the closest thing to a precedent they can find—and they’re likely to take the view that you should be viewed as if you were a pregnant mother who, for some reason, can’t actually give birth.”
“I’m pregnant,” said Gerald, feeling that the notion was more than slightly surreal, “and I can’t get an abortion.”
“That’s not unprecedented either,” said the doctor. “In fact....”
“Never mind the precedents,” Gerald interrupted him. “Let’s stick to me. Are you telling me that I might be forced to carry this fetus until it’s capable of independent life—that you won’t cut it out until you’re sure that it can survive in an incubator?”
“No, I’m not saying that,” replied McClelland, testily. “The fetus is still viable now, but that doesn’t guarantee that you can carry it to term—not, at any rate, without considerable tissue-restructuring to make sure that you can sustain it while it grows. It might be better—indeed, it might be a matter of some urgency—to transplant it into a woman’s womb, or into one of the new artificial wombs under test at St. Mary’s. That’s a decision you’ll have to make, but it must be an informed decision, morally as well as medically—which is where the Ethics Committee comes in.
“I’ve already sent in my preliminary report, but the committee will want a more detailed one as soon as I’ve collated all the data. We can’t discharge you—and we must respectfully demand that you don’t discharge yourself—until the committee has met and made its views known to you. But you really mustn’t worry; what we all want is to figure out where your best interests lie, and where the best interests of your brother lie.”
The vital phrase—”the best interests of your brother”—lingered in Gerald’s mind long after the doctor had gone.
* * * * * * *
“I’m pregnant” said Gerald, flatly.
“If that’s a joke, dear heart,” said Mark Cleminson, “it’s in very bad taste, and it isn’t even funny.”
“It’s not a joke,” Gerald assured him. “It’s a fetus in fetu.”
While he explained, with painstaking patience, he studied Mark’s face very carefully.
Mark and Gerald had been together for five years, and married for two. They had married, in fact, a mere three days after the law had at last been amended to permit same-sex marriages. They had—not unnaturally—been carried away by the triumphant feeling that a great victory had been won for justice and equality, and that its potential must be exploited to the full. Alas, Gerald sometimes felt that their relationship had failed to live up to the expectations into which that moral and political victory had seduced them. Like most marriages made on earth, theirs had fared no better than those supposedly made in Heaven, and he was no longer sure whether or not Mark still loved him—or, for that matter, whether Mark had ever really loved him. He couldn’t help wondering whether this might be the acid test which would reveal the truth of the matter.
“It’s a trifle macabre,” said Mark, when the explanation was complete, “to think of you swallowing up your little brother-to-be like that. One expects a certain amount of sibling rivalry, of course, but prenatal cannibalism is taking things a little too far, don’t you think?”
Gerald pursed his lips, but dutifully suppressed his impatient ire. “It’s not a joke, Mark,” he repeated, patiently.
“Oh, cheer up,” Mark retorted. “Yesterday we thought you might have some dreadful cancer devouring you from the bowel outwards. I’m sorry if I sound flippant, but it’s mostly relief, I assure you. You did say that it isn’t dangerous, didn’t you?”
“It isn’t dangerous,” admitted Gerald, “but it isn’t straightforward either.” He explained about the Ethics Committee, carefully gauging Mark’s reaction to every point in the chain of argument. He knew that he was going to have to go through this whole thing again, at least twice more. His parents would have to know, and so would his employers. He hoped that it might not be necessary to tell anyone else, but he could hardly avoid the dreadful fear that the media might get hold of the story. It would be news anyhow, but the fact that he was married to another man would give the headline-writers a field day.
He already knew how his parents would react to the story, because they always reacted the same way to everything he did—with pain, shock and horror. They subscribed very heavily to the where-did-we-go-wrong school of rhetoric, and they would try to make him feel as guilty about this as every other respect in which he offended them. In fact, he had a nasty suspicion that his mother, at least, would instantly begin to believe that her life would have been much less troubled if only Gerald had been the embryo that was engulfed.
It was harder to guess how they would react at the office; everyone there had been supremely sympathetic and supportive while it seemed that he might have cancer, but this was something else.
All in all, Gerald felt that he had just undergone an instantaneous role-switch from brave invalid to freak, and he badly needed some reassurance from his first and closest confidant to the effect that other people could ride with the punch.
“That’s repulsive,” said Mark, when he’d finished. “Do they seriously imagine that you’d consent to tissue-reconstruction just so that you can carry the fetus until they’ll condescend to whip it out? Hell, it’s like one of those old twentieth century jokes about homosexual couples, which should have been laid to rest with the Dark Ages. Holy shit, they will keep it quiet, won’t they?”
“I suppose they’ll try,” Gerald replied unhappily. “At least, they will if they remove the fetus. If they don’t...well, news is bound to get around if I have to put in an application for maternity leave.”
“Now who needs reminding that it’s not a joke? Thank God it’s your decision—it will be your decision, won’t it?”
“So the doctor says—but it has to be an informed decision, medically and morally. He was very clear about that. Whatever’s best for baby....”
“Whatever’s best for both of you. The greatest good of the greatest number, remember. Don’t let the bastards talk you into anything. I wouldn’t trust a doctor as far as I could throw a feather into a headwind.”
Neither would I, thought Gerald. That’s why I delayed going to see one, and thus made certain that this would become a matter of some urgency. Aloud, he said: “I won’t. But Dr. McClelland’s right—it does have to be an informed decision, and it has to be taken very carefully.”
Mark stared at him, his grey eyes as hard as flints. Gerald couldn’t figure out, now, just why he’d once thought that those eyes were extraordinarily sexy and sensitive.
“Gerry,” said Mark, in a voice which was suddenly rather cold, “you couldn’t possibly think that you might carry this kid around for the next God-knows-how-long. You couldn’t possibly.”
“It would only be for three months at the most, Mark,” Gerald pointed out. “And when all’s said and done, he ain’t heavy—he’s my brother.” He couldn’t suppress a giggle, despite the fact that he was trying to be serious. The flippancy, in fact, was only a way of concealing just how serious he was.
An informed decision, medically and morally--that was what it was all about. The doctor was right.