Another sensation beyond my programming seemed to overwhelm my sensors. Had I been a breathing organism, I think I would have choked from the feeling.
Removing Lila’s implant was the wrong thing to do—against regulations, against reason, against my programming—but somehow I couldn’t say no. It was over in less than two minutes. Lila walked out of the med lab with a pink seam on the inside of her left arm and a huge smile on her face.
For me, it was not so easy. The choking sensation that had compelled me to bend to Lila’s wishes was replaced by feelings of guilt. The implants were designed to only be removed if the patient was authorized for reproduction, and their removal triggered a flood of fertility hormones. If Lila had unprotected sex with her husband in the near future, she would almost certainly become pregnant. Pregnancy in the harsh Nova climate could be a life-threatening condition.
Still, try as I might, I could not tell Evan. Yes, patient confidentiality was part of my programming, but I seemed to have no trouble disregarding my programming when my newfound emotions got in the way. I struggled with this inconsistency but was helpless to make sense of it. I was left with the strangest conclusion: I wanted Lila to be happy. I wanted her to have a baby. I wanted us to have a baby.
Evan seemed pleasantly surprised by his wife’s sudden good mood. I watched them as they went about their chores during the day. Lila would often brush against him and whisper in his ear. Once, when she did that, Evan grabbed her and kissed her fiercely.
It was my responsibility to keep track of the vital signs and emotional health of my charges, but my interest in this mating ritual went beyond the clinical. I felt embarrassed, as if I was spying on the couple, but I could not look away.
Lila took a long bath before dinner and put on a clean uniform. In addition to the protein supplement they always ate for their evening meal, she steamed some of the fresh greens she had coaxed from the rocky soil of Nova, the first of the new crops. She drew a pouch of red wine from the ship’s stores, one of a very few allotted by the regulations for “significant celebratory events.”
Evan raised his eyebrows when he saw the wine. “What’s the occasion?”
Lila kissed him. “To us.”
That night, I sat by the campfire alone.
Evan was furious with me when Lila announced she was pregnant. She had passed off the first few queasy mornings as just overwork, but after a week, Evan knew.
“How could you do this?” he shouted at me. A vein in the center of his forehead throbbed and his eyes glittered with rage. “You’re programmed to protect us.”
“I made Caroline do it. She didn’t have a choice.” Lila was calm, her tone even.
I had researched the effects of pregnancy and was fascinated to see the “glow” with my own sensors. Lila had spots of color high on her cheeks and her eyes were clear and bright, but it went beyond these limited physical manifestations. She exuded a confidence I had not seen in any patient before. She seemed to breathe life.
“It’ll be alright, Evan,” she said gently, stepping between us. She hugged him. “I feel fine. It will be alright.”
Evan blinked back tears as he stared at me.
For a few months, it was fine. Lila’s belly began to swell and she sang songs as she went about her work. In the evenings, she made baby clothes from old uniforms and blankets. I had heard of this phenomenon called “nesting” and carefully documented the symptoms for any future offspring. Her health remained within acceptable parameters, and I felt a growing excitement for the new addition to our family.
Evan was still angry about the situation and had stopped speaking to me. He spent most of his days in the fields, trying to encourage their stocks of seeds to grow into foodstuffs. On that front, the mission was a success. The Ranger crew had managed to grow beans, peas, and squash. Root stocks like carrots and potatoes struggled to grow in the rocky soil, but the vine-based plants thrived.
Their meals consisted mostly of their own crops now, supplemented with protein powder from the ship’s stores. One evening, after she had cleared the evening meal, Lila said, “We’ve done it. We’re self-sufficient.”
“Hmm?” Evan stared at the fire. Most evenings, after a full day in the fields at double gravity, he was too tired for conversation.
“We can survive on our own. We have enough acreage under cultivation to feed ourselves and stay alive no matter what happens.” Lila placed a hand on her belly. “Oh, the baby’s kicking.” She waved to me. “Come feel.”
I made my way to her side and placed my hand on her abdomen. The receptors in my palm felt the warmth of the tight skin beneath her uniform. Her flesh felt smooth and still. Then, suddenly, a ripple disturbed the surface and I felt the outline of a tiny foot. A sense of wonder welled up inside me. That was our baby, hers and Evan’s and mine, living inside Lila’s flesh.
Evan looked up the hill to where the red light of the emergency beacon blinked softly. “We have plenty of food in stores until we’re rescued,” he replied.
“They’re not coming, Evan,” Lila said softly. “I know it. It’s just the four of us.”
Evan leveled his gaze at me across his wife. “You mean three.”
Lila laughed. “No, silly, I’m counting the baby.”
“So am I.”
That night was the last time I remember Lila being happy.
Our days here on Nova are longer—eighty-six percent longer, to be exact, and the gravity is nearly twice that of Earth. For me, the gravity meant an adjustment of my servos and a modest expenditure of additional energy. For my companions, it was a constant strain their bodies were not meant to handle.
The next day, Lila’s health started a slow decline. The gravity took its toll on her swollen body and she was confined to a bed in the med lab. Within weeks, her condition was critical.
Evan confronted me outside the med lab. “You need to remove the baby. It’s killing her.”
“She won’t allow it.”
“It’s her or the child. I need her, Caroline. Please.”
I had done the viability calculations already. At least another week in Lila’s womb was needed for the baby’s lungs to mature. If I performed a cesarean now, there was a seventy-one percent probability the child would perish.
“Do it,” he hissed at me.
“I cannot, Evan.”
“You mean you won’t.”
The circles under Lila’s eyes had grown deeper and darker, as if her life was being sucked from within. Still, my friend smiled at me as we waited together in the med lab.
Evan came to visit, but he rarely stayed. The sight of his wife dying was too much for him.
My calculations were wrong. It took ten days for the baby’s lungs to mature to the point of an eighty percent chance of survival in the harsh Nova climate. What I didn’t tell either of them was that Lila’s chances of surviving the operation were now less than forty percent.
Lila died on the operating table that night. Evan held the squalling girl—Lila had forbidden me to tell her the sex in advance—while I worked to save the life of my best human friend.
I worked long after I knew the possibility of successful resuscitation had passed, but I could not quit. Finally, as her blood grew cold on the receptors in my hands and her flesh took on a bluish tinge, I brushed her eyelids shut.