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It's not a surprise. I don't go to a doctor for stomach pain, think I missed my period from stress, or any other classic story. I am not naive; I know how babies are made, I know that I fell behind on my pills, and I know that we didn’t use protection. Bent over the toilet for the second time this week, the equation is not a hard one to solve.
Still. Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
Three minutes. A hundred and eighty seconds. Two lines.
There is no gasp, no one to tell, no tears one way or the other. Just a cold, cold, sinking feeling, as if an icy hand has covered my mouth and dragged me into the bay. Ollie whines from the other side of the door.
I sink like a stone and curl up around my knees.
***
It’s easy to hide. Tess thinks I’m stressed, and Anden walks on eggshells already. The weight of Day’s coma puts deeper meaning into every kind word, every small gesture. Outside of the office, I prefer to be alone. Though am I ever fully alone? I stare at my stomach in the mirror and fail to imagine little eyes, little hands, a little heart.
***
“Agent Iparis.” General Fitzgerald McKinley’s smile is cold and his eyes are unreadable. I salute in the traditional way—fist to heart, head bowed.
“Sir.”
“Please, sit down.” The office is an elegant one, all sleek lines and wood, warm light, imported pieces from the Sea Cities and Canada. I settle into an uncomfortable chair. “As I understand it, you were staked to take your late brother’s position as Captain in the late Natasha Jameson’s command?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Of course, that is no longer possible. But at the latest military council, us generals took a look at your file, and I must say, the resume you’ve managed to acquire at such a young age is quite impressive. I had to fight for my chance at offering you a position as captain in one of my own LA squadrons.” It takes me a second to register what he’s saying, another to quell the bloom of pride in my chest, the little girl that appears, jumping at the chance of titles and power and praise. I am no longer that little girl. I force my emotions down, stare the general in the eye, meet his cold expression with my own.
“I would be honored to accept, Sir.”
***
The tests confirm what I already know. “It seems as if you’re about seven weeks along. Does that make sense?” I nod. “You have three options, Miss. Iparis.” The doctor’s coat is wrinkled and his breath is sour, and the frown he’s been giving me is so withering it takes effort to cool my expression. “You can either keep the fetus, bring it to term and put it up for adoption, or abort the pregnancy.”
“I’m keeping it.”
He pauses, then smiles at me, all stained teeth and chapped lips. “Now, now, let's not make hasty decisions, dear. You’re in a very vulnerable place right now—alone, scared, already drained by pregnancy. Why don’t you think it over for a week or so, and then get back to me? You have time.”
I have already thought it over, of course. Nights laying awake in bed, days spent swallowing down a rising ball of anxiety, the world dark and blurry, as if seen through a net of fear. But then I remember his eyes, his smile, the light that radiates off of him. It won’t be so bad, once Day wakes up. Once he’s here and I can bury my face into his chest and he can shield me from our new reality. I imagine a little girl with pigtails full of his blond hair, a little boy with brown eyes and Day’s cockiness, a whip-smart little kid that Day swings around in his arms and teases at the dinner table. It won’t be so bad.
“I’m keeping it.”
The doctor sits down heavily in his chair, but his attempt at intimidating eye contact comes off more comical. It takes a lot more than a doctor with poor hygiene to intimidate me. “Now,” he sighs, “Miss. Iparis, you’re a nice girl, a smart girl, well bred. Rumor has it that you’re even close to the glorious Elector himself. Why throw away your life, your job at such a young age?”
“Unlike you,” I snarl, “my job has plenty of security.”
***
“Iparis,” Mika says, her voice a hurried whisper in my com, “on your 6, behind the fence, I’m picking up heat signatures—”
The man, clad in Colonies blue, crumples to the ground, unconscious. He has dark hair, a muscular frame (210 pounds), and a new welt on his head waiting for him when he wakes up in the isolation chambers. I lower the .5 in my hand. “Neutralized. Keaton, phone into base and tell them that this man has an African passport in his pocket.” The agent next to me nods and darts away.
“What do you think that means, Captain?” Mika asks. I can hear the sound of Batalla coming in from her end—the clatter of keys, the voices of our secretaries, our mission controls. I shrug, crouching low as a bullet is fired nearby.
“I can only guess.”
***
“Captain Iparis! It’s so nice to see you again.” It takes me a moment to place the woman who strides up in front of me, parting the crowd—her dark, curly hair; long legs; inherent gracefulness. From the stitch of her clothes, she’s from an upper class, probably military family, and I've seen the family crest displayed on her broach on someone else recently, maybe at the Senate meeting—
“Ms. Fedelma. Nice to see you, too.”
She smiles, and it’s a beautifully practiced smile, not unlike every other person whose had this exact same conversation with me. This, I have to remind myself, is why I dropped out of being Princeps-elect: the chit chat, the politics, the placaties.
“I tried to talk with you earlier at the function, but it seems as if you’re in high demand. Congratulations on the promotion.”
“Thank you.”
“How are you holding up?”
“Fine. You?”
“Well, you know, just fine. Fine like the rest of us. But are any of us really fine?”
“Hmm . . . Excuse me?”
“I don’t mean to compare my troubles with yours—I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through—but the entire government has lost its sense of self. And I think the revelation of the old Senators going behind the Elector’s back . . . my father is still reeling, of course, and the body’s trust with one another looks to be at an all time low. The executions don’t help, naturally—”
“They shouldn’t have betrayed us.”
“Exactly my thought. It offers a new beginning. A silver lining to all this tragedy. Isn’t that beautiful, in a wicked way?”
“A new beginning.” In the wickedest way.
***
Tess stares at me wide-eyed when I tell her. I choke down my coffee, feel its scalding burn all the way down my throat and into the pit in my stomach. The pastries taste like cardboard, and I hand the rest of mine to Ollie and his doe-eyes.
Finally, “Do you think it’s a boy or girl?”
“Boy.”
“I’ll bet you a thousand notes on girl.”
“Deal.”
***
Facts have always been my escape. But to care for an arbitrary measurement, a progression of weeks, an extra inch on my waistline—how am I expected to love something that’s only a statistic?
***
I visit him most mornings. I wish I could spend all day in that 20x22 room, holding his hand, counting his breaths, but I resign myself to the mornings. Treaties are being written, threats are being tracked, skirmishes on the warfront are popping up, and new agents are deployed each day. Many come back in bags. Anden would have my head if I spent all day holed up in LAH—I think Day would, too, if he knew.
Not much use you’re doing here with me, Sweetheart, though I appreciate the sentiment. Go on, go save your people. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.
***
“Now, do you, Ms. June Iparis, swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
“I swear.”
“Today, we are discussing the impact that former senior Senators Kelly Donaldson, Albert Hunt, Lydia Nare, Stephan Pacatto, and Alexsandra Zou had on the hiring of Andrew DeSoto, and their relations in his subsequent attempt on our Elector’s life. Has the court justly called you in to speak?”
“I am knowledgeable on the subject of the attempted assination, yes.”
“As we’ve gone over, you and Daniel Altan Wing were working for the rebel group called the Patriots.”
“For a short time after I tried to stop his wrongful execution, yes.”
“And your job was to grow close to the Elector and lead his excellency to a designated place, am I correct?”
“Yes. We were to drive on a predesignated course. And when I attempted to reroute this course, the Patriots had already put in measures of prevention.”
“So you were attempting to sabotage the rebel group’s plan?”
“For the sake of the Elector, yes.”
“Now, an account of the actions of Daniel Altan Wing, who we cannot question at this time. If the court understands correctly, you two were in a romantic relationship?”
“We were.”
“Will that affect your testimonial?”
“It will not.”
And on, and on, and on. I’ve just become a list of memories, a bank of facts. I spend more time sitting in courtrooms than I do working with my squadron.
***
I stare at the form for seventeen minutes. My mouse hovers. Somehow, this small check box feels irreversible, like the first definite step towards reality. Just a simple health form, standard procedure for the military. So much more.
Are you currently pregnant or breastfeeding? YES or NO
I click yes and submit the form in one motion, and I cannot act surprised when Anden calls me later that night.
***
I’m summoned to McKinely’s office one morning. His secretary waves me in, but when I enter the room, he doesn’t look up from his monitor. I stand at attention, back straight, salute neat, for each of the 13 minutes and 26 seconds he makes me wait.
Finally, “Tell me, Iparis, why is it you’re still in the army?”
“Sir?”
“You heard me.” He finally looks up, narrowed eyes studying me from behind a pair of reading glasses. “You’re a 17-year-old prodigy, Drake valedictorian, and war-hero, who was slated to be Princeps—you’re the Republic’s golden girl. Why are you still standing at attention, taking orders from this old man, when you could be changing the world?”
A test if I’ve ever seen one. I take a breath, see Metias’ warm glow, his encouraging smile.
“I prefer to rebel from within the system. Sir.”
***
My feet pound a steady beat, even as my mind plucks away its syncopated, off-kilter melody, a blender of accidentals and minor chords. Each lap feels like an old song, played over my brother’s radio one too many times. Even my breath, ragged by now, is on tune.
I’m carried around my 13th lap. It’s 6:28 am, and the sun has just started to rise. Anden thinks I’m trying to run myself into the ground; I am running away from it. I am climbing out of the sinkhole, clawing my way with each turn of the track.
I’ve never been one for music, but the sunrise is my sanctuary.
***
Some part of me keeps waiting for a person to sit me down, look at me sternly, tell me that everything will be ok and that there’s a rulebook I can follow. There isn’t, and no one does, but I still crave it. My younger self would be ashamed.
***
“When are you finding out the sex?” Tess asks randomly one Sunday morning, talking over a bite of pastry. Channel 19 is playing softly in the background of our weekly brunch, and the espresso the waiter puts onto my plate (china, 6-inch, imported from Canada) steams pleasantly.
“13 days.” 13 days until I find out whether it’s a boy or girl—another fact to add to the very small collection that I have about this thing growing inside of me.
“How are you gonna reveal it?”
“Hmm?”
“Like, are you planning a party, or is someone gonna—”
“The doctor’s going to call and tell me when the blood tests come back.”
“June.” From across the table, Tess sighs at me and picks up another pastry. “No.”
“What?”
“No,” she gestures grandly, croissant in hand, “this, you can’t just not—I’m going to call your doctor and have her send the results to me first and then, well—”
“Tess, what?”
“You just leave it to me.”
“I don’t want to do anything flashy.”
“But baby Wing deserves—”
“No, Tess,” I say, and my voice is firm, almost biting. “Not when he’s still in the hospital.”
***
Mariana Dupree strides into my office, with an aura of someone clearly on a mission. The usually perfectly put together woman’s nails are chipped and her hair is pulled into a ponytail instead of its normal waves. The reconstruction of our government has hit her just as hard as Anden. Once again, I am only reassured that I made the right decision in dropping out of that particular job.
“Captain Iparis.” Ollie tilts his head up curiously and trots over to meet her. She gives his head a distracted little pat, and I smile.
“Hello, Priceps.”
“Yes, good afternoon. I heard about your . . . condition.” She’s never been one to waste breath. I nod my head, looking down at Ollie so I can avoid eye contact. Still, I hear the frown in her voice as she says, “I had hoped that my information was false.”
“No, ma’am.”
She blows out a long breath and takes a seat in the chair opposite mine, drumming her fingers on the wood of my desk. “This, of course, is going to have serious implications on the Elector’s reputation.”
“I don’t follow.”
“People are going to assume the child is his.”
“But I haven’t told—”
She raises an elegant hand, a 2.4 carat diamond glittering on one finger. “I don’t care to hear the details of your romantic life, June. All I’m saying is that the public will know it’s either the Elector’s or Daniel Wing’s, and that right there is going to be a PR nightmare.”
She gives me a meaningful glance, and I can see the next couple months stretch before me—protests and fights, speeches and name calling. I sigh. “What does the Elector want me to do?”
Mariana’s frown deepens, and she leans on her hand, covering her face. “If it was up to me, you would go out and announce your pregnancy, say the child is fathered by someone who is not the Elector or Daniel, have the baby, and never bring it up again. But I have a feeling that’s not what you want, and that’s not what the Elector wants, either.”
I swallow. “What does the Elector want me to do?” I know it was a calculated thing, sending Mariana here instead of Anden coming himself. I haven’t brought up the baby with him, except for that one phone call where I confirmed it, and this is his way of showing me that he’s not going to force the issue.
The Princeps barely contains her eye roll, a common expression within the older people in our Senate. Anden and I are too young to deal with. “He wants you to do what you’re comfortable with, that’s all. ‘Whatever she sees fit.’ And I’m here to ask you how you see fit.” She looks at me expectantly, and the seconds tick by.
“I—I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” She blinks—I guess that’s a phrase that people aren’t used to coming from my mouth. Though I’ve gotten very used to saying it, recently. “Well, I guess you do have some time to decide. You’re only, what . . .”
“13 weeks.”
“13 weeks along, and your stomach isn’t noticeable. We have some time. Let’s say you have to say something to the press by the, hmm, sixth month? Does that sound fair to you?”
Some of the tension in my body dissipates, and I relax back into my chair. “Yes. Thank you.”
A brisk nod, and she’s at my door, already preparing for the next thing on her checklist. “Wonderful. Thanks for letting me stop by, Captain. Sorry to interrupt.”
“It’s no problem.” I smile at her. Her six month deadline is nicer than it needs to be, and we both know it.
I turn back to my monitor, expecting to hear the sound of the Princeps’ heels making their way down the hall. Instead, she hesitates. When she finally speaks, her voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it. “Oh and, June. If you’re ever feeling too terribly bad—I’ve been through it twice before, you know. I can pass along some tips.” My smile grows before I can stop it, and Ollie headbuts the Princeps in the leg approvingly. “I’d like that a lot, thank you.”
***
My body is a machine calibrated for war. Muscle-lined arms, fingers with perfect accuracy, a frame flexible and slim enough to crawl under fences and strong enough to climb over barriers. The powerful calves underneath me will always catch my fall. Each muscle, each limb has been refined from years to work, of early mornings and late nights, of days spent running that same 400 meter track for hours on end.
It is hard—harder than I imagined—to see my body change, morph into something out of my control. My hips grow along with my breasts, my stomach. My uniform catches in places it never has before.
I move my full-length mirror from my bedroom to my closet.
***
Rumors creep like vines, winding its way from mouth to mouth, street to street, up onto balconies, crawling into doorways and offices, into written word and window frames, and finally reaching the glass and marble of my apartment. I stare at the message Pascao sent me, a headline from one of our new, more frivolous newspapers.
Prodigy June Iparis Pregnant? Only 17!
It’s only one source, but one source becomes two, and soon the story will be projected in bold text on every jumbotron in town. Soon, real life will catch up, with its name-calling and its derogatory words, with its assumptions and its bias. Besides, there’s only so long I can hide my shape in winter coats. The game is up.
***
After that preliminary visit, I changed doctors. Dr. Spencer’s a middle-aged woman, nice, kind, peppy—more excited about my baby than I am—and ok with signing an NDA. Everything I need. But today her usual smile is replaced with worry, a study on tension and lines.
She taps her foot and sighs. “June, this blood work, well, is isn’t—”
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong with the baby. Not yet.”
“Yet?” She sets down her stack of papers with a sigh and reviews me critically from over her monitor. I’m brought back to long days spent in the Dean's Office at Drake, straight-backed in a chair much like I am now, listening to keys clack. So similar, and yet entirely different. I am different. My hand drifts to my stomach. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Dr. Spencer frowns, taps her foot for the fifth time this minute. “Well, with complete transparency, there’s a whole laundry list: you’ve clearly been overworking yourself, you haven’t been eating well—
“I’ve been taking the vitamins you gave me.” She glares at me, a foreign look from the woman, and her voice crescendos.
“—you’ve been putting yourself in positions of stress, you’ve been on three separate missions in the last two months, you’re suffering from an iron deficiency, insomnia, and you’re still going on your stupid 15 mile runs that I’ve told you a hundred times to—”
“It’s exercise.”
“It’s winter, June! It’s winter, and it’s 13 degrees outside right now, and frankly, no matter how many vitamins you’re taking, you’re being irresponsible and your child is going to suffer the consequences. You like facts, right? I’ll give you facts.” She picks up the stack of papers she brought into the room, handing them to me like a benediction. “These right here show early signs of no less than twelve different conditions, ones that usually only show up in income brackets of 100,000 notes per year or less—that is to say, people without access to a fraction of the neonatal care that you have. The only reason your baby might develop anything is your own negligence.”
The room is so still I doubt my heart beats, as if it’s ashamed. “I . . .”
Dr. Spencer leans towards me, takes my hand. “I know you grew up in an atmosphere where pushing yourself to your limits was required, but you’re grown now, Ms. Iparis. And whether you like it or not, you’re going to be a mom. It’s not all about you anymore. Think about your son.”
“Son?”
She leans back in her chair, and my heart flares back to life, suddenly pounding so hard in my chest the energy in my veins is flowing overtime. I feel its rush in my hands, my feet, an excited buzz suddenly present in the front of my head.
“You’re having a son, June.”
A son.
The energy rushes up to my brain, whites out my eyes, spills out of me in a silent wave of love and fear, so much fear. Everything is suddenly real. Is this how it’s supposed to be?
A son.
When I open my eyes again, I do not recognize the world.
***
As Bryan drives me back to my apartment, the doctor’s visit is still on my mind. It takes me longer than it should to notice the agents. They stream around like ants, crowding the stairwell, the lobby, making a 43 foot radius around the entrance—a sea of black suits and bright lights.
“Ms. Iparis . . .” Bryan slows the Jeep down, confused.
“Pull over to the curb.” I press a button on my com set, even as my triple of guards start to surround my car. “Base, what’s the report on my house?”
After three seconds, a young, female voice that I recognize vaguely responds, “The agency got a tip that there was a bomb threat in your apartment, Captain Iparis. The explosive has just been located, actually.”
Nausea rushes at me with full force, a twisted version of morning sickness, and my voice comes out quiet, weak like I’ve never heard it. “A bomb?”
“Yes. It appears to be made out of poly—”
“D-did they know it was mine? My apartment, that is.”
“Well, yes. And before you ask, Ollie is fine. Would you like to know the details on where–”
“Did they know I was going to be away?”
“We presume they didn’t, as—well, as you know, you’ve been a target since the war . . .” she trails off, clearly confused.
I’ve dealt with things like this before, lots of threats and bravado, more letters and phone calls and codes than are worth remembering, but never something quite so concrete as a bomb. An explosive placed in my own home, with the intent to kill. Still, I am an agent of the Republic; I should let it slide off my back.
It’s not all about you anymore.
***
I think it’s rather impressive, actually. I manage to make it through the door of my temporary quarters before bursting into tears.
***
Is it ethical to bring life into such a turbulent world?
***
I go through the motions. Running, visiting Day, working, feeding Ollie. I have meetings with Anden when he’s in LA, and I go out to lunch with the senators whenever they’re feeling neglected. I haven’t seen Tess or Pascao in eleven days.
***
I feel bad for my son. He deserves a better mother.
***
I spend most of my time in the office, Ollie at my feet, paperwork stacked around me. Even McKinely’s noticed. I thought you were my Captain, not my secretary.”
***
“Box with me.” Anden is standing in the doorway, a frown on his face and authority in his voice. Still, I’ve made a study of his tone these past few months. I know what he says is a request, not an order. “It’s good for letting off steam, getting out of slumps. My coach can teach you how.”
“I know how to box, Anden.” Still, I stand up from my desk, follow him out the door of my office. His lips are quirked into a soft little smile, and I find myself matching it.
***
“How’s he looking?”
Dr. Spencer gives me a small smile, drawing up a file on her monitor. “Well, the tests are better than last time, at least. Your blood pressure is lower; your iron’s looking better; your levels are stabeling out overall—all very promising. Good job, Ms. Iparis. It does look like we might be looking at a slightly premature birth, with the pelvic pressure that seems to be appearing—” I frown at my stomach and the little bump underneath my hospital gown. “Ungrateful little brat.”
***
“Don’t they bother you?” Pascao asks, motioning at the woman who’s glaring at me. He crosses his arms and glares back at her, and she huffs, turning her nose in the air and walking away.
I shake my head, ask him what he means, even though we both know perfectly well that I notice each stare, whisper, snicker, and raised eyebrow. There is a new mark on my record, and the whole country’s talking about it—quietly.
***
“You’re so goddy tense,” Tess says, fingers digging into my shoulder blades. “Does this feel good?” She swats at me as I attempt to stretch out the cramp in my back.
“I just feel old,” I groan, and my friend laughs.
***
“Good morning, Love.” Day looks like a sleeping angel in his hospital bed, his hair a golden halo around him. I brush it away from his face, kiss his forehead, and imagine him smiling up at me in response.
Once upon a time, he would have pulled me down for a proper kiss, combed his own fingers through my own hair.
Who could have guessed that I would look back fondly on wartime?
***
Politics get more complicated, and symptoms get worse. My apartment is cold and lonely. I cannot imagine a worse fate than another four months of this.
***
I can’t decide how I think Day will feel about his son. On the one hand, we are young. Too young and too broken, in many respects, to be parents. He might be angry, scared. On the other hand, family is Day’s one true loyalty. I wonder if my son counts.
***
There are moments when the world falls at your feet, and you're simply unable to catch a single piece.
I’m 23 weeks and 5 days pregnant when I call him. “Anden?” My voice shakes. “Anden?”