Nobody’s Baby
BETWEEN THE ANTIKYTHERA Club visit and the times we’d had to move Peregrine around the ship, rumors about the baby’s existence were flooding the Fairweather’s public communication channels.
I was keeping abreast of some of the more ludicrous conspiracy theories—particularly the one that said Medical’s retromats had broken down and we were all going to have to be babies again if we wanted new bodies—so I managed to catch the moment when the Board’s official announcement came through, essentially unchanged from the draft I’d sent them.
And with my name appended in case passengers had further questions.
All hell, in textual form, broke loose.
I spent the following hour in the Antikythera bar.
Ruthie took the baby after lunch and John continued his shift, pouring memory cocktails for club members and casting anxious glances my way.
I typed replies to alarmed friends and broadcast calming, repetitive statements from my pocket watch until my finger bones ached, taking only occasional breaks to listen to two mathematicians debate the geometry of compression at beyond light speeds, or some such thing.
It was a relief to bathe briefly in a river of words that I didn’t understand and wasn’t required to respond to.
Then, with a wealth of dread, I returned to my office in the Bureau, where I was sure people were waiting to speak to me in person rather than by note.
My dread proved thoroughly justified when Jason Ipcar turned up. Leloup savoringly knocked on my office door to inform me of the arrival, before retreating to the Jason-free serenity of his own office.
The scenario writer stood up from the ochre sofa when I opened the door to the waiting room. He looked me up, looked me down, and let his lip curl with disdain. “You Dorothy Gentleman?” he asked without preamble.
“That’s correct, Mr. Ipcar,” I said. I had only spent three seconds in this man’s company and already I wished Flora could have dumped him a thousand times.
Out of an air lock, for preference. He was handsome enough, as men went, but the mulish set of that chiseled jaw and the cold gleam in those limpid eyes proclaimed him a nasty, selfish piece of work.
“I want my child, Miss Gentleman,” he said. “And I’ve come to claim him.”
I smiled. I’d been looking for a suspect for the kidnapping—someone either desperate or foolish enough to have attempted to take Peregrine by force. Jason Ipcar had all but served himself up to me on a platter.
Oh, this was going to be fun. I’d had to watch my words all day around sensitive, subtle, and anxious people. But now Fate had handed me a prime fish to fillet with the sharpest side of my tongue—and I couldn’t wait.
I beckoned him inside. “Why don’t we step into my office?”
He made for the chair behind my desk—the nerve!—and only a pointed cough from me diverted him onto the sofa instead.
I didn’t sit. I merely leaned a hip against the desk and folded my arms at him. “Have you had children before, Mr. Ipcar?”
He snorted. “Not any I’m aware of.”
It took a particular brand of effrontery to make that joke so many centuries after it had become irrelevant. My helpful smile didn’t waver. “May I ask what makes you interested in gaining custody of this baby at this time?”
“I believe in protecting what’s mine,” he replied.
“And you believe the baby is yours?”
“Flora and I have been together almost a year now. I’m aware there were others during that time—for me as well as for her, mind—”
“I’m sure,” I muttered.
“—but the odds point to me being the father. And I won’t sit back while others take advantage of my child. He’s my responsibility, mine.”
Here we approached a motive for a kidnapping, if he’d done it. “What kind of advantage concerns you?”
He shifted in his seat. “You’ve seen how many wild rumors there are about this baby—how it happened, what it means, whose it is.
We haven’t had this kind of sensation in decades on the Fairweather.
And I know more than one writer—playwrights, journalists, scenesters like myself—who are already cobbling together a treatment of the story.
Someone is going to make a lot of money off this baby.
” He clapped one hand on his knee and leaned forward, elbow akimbo.
“Someone needs to see that the baby gets his rightful share. As the source of the story.”
And the rights holder. Which, of course, Peregrine’s guardian would be until Peregrine himself came of age.
It wasn’t a system we had much experience with on board ship—our passengers had all been of legal age for centuries—but it featured in enough of the flickers and stage shows that everyone thought they knew how it worked.
Like the basket with the significant fabric, or the maid who’s secretly the heir.
Jason Ipcar, in short, was here because he thought there would be fame.
Money was easy to come by on the Fairweather—but reputation, popularity, and attention were in comparatively short supply.
Reason enough to attempt a kidnapping, particularly if he thought the child was his by rights.
It was extremely stupid, of course, because as soon as he produced the baby and made his claim, any ship’s detective would be able to say Oh look, here is our kidnapper.
He was lucky Leloup wasn’t on the case: My colleague liked things tidy, and this was as tidy as it came.
“I’m so glad to hear you have the baby’s best interests at heart,” I lied through my smiling teeth, keeping my voice soft and my eyes softer. “We’ve already seen one attempt on the child’s safety, last night. A shame you were not there to protect him.”
“Well, I didn’t know about him, did I? I had … other obligations last night.”
“I’m sure a man like you must have,” I murmured. “Anywhere in particular?”
“The Sofia was premiering one of my latest scripts. A few of us adjourned to the Rococo afterward to celebrate.”
Ah, the Rococo, one of the ship’s longest-established cocktail palaces. Infamous for their debauchery and shameless rumormongering: If Ipcar had been there, a dozen bartenders and waitstaff would happily confirm.
Odds were, then, that he was not our kidnapper.
But I could still justify tormenting him a little, to relieve my own feelings and frighten him out of meddling further in a case he had no business in.
“Considering the interest in the child,” I began, “I’m sure you’ll understand that both the Board and the Bureau are eager to stay informed and involved.
” I let my smile widen a little. “Very involved. Particularly since this would be your first child. We are fiercely interested in providing an immense amount of support to this baby’s parent. ”
“What kind of support?” he inquired suspiciously.
“Well.” I let the syllable unroll like a carpet, and then I launched in. “Of course there is the full background inquiry, home examination, and thorough interviews with references you may offer as to your character and behavior—not a problem for a man of your caliber, I am sure.”
Poor Jason was looking a trifle green around the gills. “All that?”
“That’s the preliminaries,” I chirped. “As well as, it hardly needs mentioning, the educational component.”
“He’s hardly old enough for schooling yet, surely?” He tugged anxiously at the knot on his tie.
“Not for him, Mr. Ipcar. For you.” His jaw dropped.
“Of course we’ll have to teach you about infant care, speech development, environmental enrichment, the importance of a consistent routine, sleep training, nutrition, and emergency aid.
I mean,” I said, “you did say you intended to be a responsible guardian?” He gave a nod, a bare, anxious jerk of his chin.
“So then you’ll have no trouble with the weekly check-up visits, either.
Just to make sure the child’s home is comfortable and hygienic. ”
Every word seemed to be a new pin, deflating his paternal enthusiasm. “You might pay for a professional cleaner,” he put in. He was trying, but he was wavering.
“Oh, we wouldn’t dream of being so officious,” I purred.
“We will of course be setting up a trust for the child, along with any royalties due him for adaptations of his story, which monies will be his when he reaches legal age. And not a second before.” I lowered my voice, as if imparting a great secret.
“You may rest assured we will guard his trust with everything the Board can bring to bear, Mr. Ipcar. Many of us on board and on the Board are parents, grandparents, relatives, teachers, and guardians. We have not had a child to protect in several centuries, but we do not intend to let that make us less than fully diligent in our responsibilities.”
“So I see.” His glance had begun flicking to either side, as if he were an animal trapped and looking for escape. “So I. So—when? Listen, Miss Gentleman, if I could just ask you a few—”
I raised a hand. “Mr. Ipcar.” He froze, mouth still open around the syllables of a word I didn’t need or want to hear. “Let me set your mind at ease. You have no child.”
“But—but…” He slumped back, wanting but not daring to believe me. “But Flora and I—”
“The baby is not yours. You have no strong claim to custody, any more than any other ordinary passenger—though of course you may petition for it if you wish.”
“No!” he squeaked, and cleared his throat. “No,” he said. “But if it’s not mine—then whose is it?”
“The father has been informed and is taking the steps he feels are appropriate,” I said. “That is all I can say at this time. But rest assured that the child will be well cared for—”
“Good, good,” he said, and shot up from the sofa as though gravity had briefly ceased to restrain him. “I appreciate the Board taking on this Herculean task, and trust that—as a disinterested outsider—”
“Goodbye, Mr. Ipcar,” I said, merciful as a hanging judge, and the man saw his chance and all but fled the Bureau.