atricia Jewett and Kaign Jones are doctors at C. Everett Koop Memorial Hospital in Des Moines in the year 2030. The United States is in its eighth year of the presidency of Benjamin Nash and his Moralist Party. The televangelist-turned-politician has presided over a transformation of the country. No previously sanctioned termination of life, from abortion to capital punishment, is legal, and heroic measures must be exerted to save even the most hopelessly brain-damaged patients, no matter what merciful relatives demand. Meanwhile, diners in restaurants are checked for body-fat content and prescribed suitable menus based on their weight. Their alcohol intake is monitored as well, all in the name of a healthier nation and the "sanctity" of life.
In this altered environment, however, a doctor's life is still basically familiar. Pat Jewett makes the rounds of her patients, trains interns and conducts a tepid long-term affair with her co-worker, Kaign Jones. (But Jones is a cad and a letch, and is simply using Pat out of habit, boredly recycling their first romance as med students.) But Pat's life is about to change. First, her old mentor Stanley Schober is brought into the hospital as a brain-dead accident victim. For the first time in her life, Pat experiences the personal impact of the nation's laws, as she must strive to keep Schober alive despite his wife's wishes otherwise.
Then a nurse is murdered in Schober's private room, and Pat stumbles upon the scene in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of the murderer. Soon, the police are involved. Was the killer after Schober, and the nurse an unlucky bystander? Is Pat herself a participant in the killing? Does this affair have anything to do with the president's scheduled visit to Koop? All these questions and more are posed by the detective in charge, one Daniel "Scotty" Scott. Scott begins to take a personal interest in Patricia, one that verges on the unprofessional. Kaign naturally begins to protest, exhibiting a kind of dog-in-the-manger attitude. But Scott continues to pay extra attention to Patricia's case, and it's just as well—for now the murderer is gunning for her.
A novel that does no harm, but little else
Mickey Zucker Reichert is both a pediatrician and a fantasy writer. The first occupation stands her in good stead in this novel, while the second does not.
Reichert's depiction of hospital routines, of surgical procedures, of a doctor's life and attitudes and thoughts and feelings, all seem robust and convincing. The medical atmosphere is tangible, believable and full of verisimilitude. So far, so good. The problem arises from the fact that in all essentials we are getting a portrait of the medical establishment circa 2004. The core speculative riffs here are perfunctory and tangential to the plot, which could be transposed to the present day without diluting its impact by one cc of saline solution. The year 2030 boasts no advancement in science over ours—save perhaps for a "decontamination box" that has simplified preop scrub time. Schober's spinal injury that leaves him a quad is incurable still—this in the face of our own familiar daily headlines on progress in the areas of stem cells, nerve regeneration, etc. The global scenario is left blank. (Terrorism? Commerce? Space exploration?) And the sociological impacts of the new legislation—in effect for nearly a decade—are nil or just not shown. Where, for instance, are the rebellious young punks proudly wearing their "Do Not Resuscitate" T-shirts?
Reichert instead fills her pages with a love triangle among Pat, Kaign and Scotty, and the whole affair is childish and immature at best. Until the book's very end, Pat acts like a neurotic 12-year-old; Kaign, a nationally famous surgeon, behaves like a 13-year-old horndog; and Detective Scott resembles Encyclopedia Brown as played by Mel Gibson. And to expose Kaign's worst behavior, Reichert has to break twice from Pat's otherwise invariant point of view, an intrusive and awkward narrative measure. If the gold standard of medical SF is that of James White and Alan Nourse, then Reichert's book feels more like one of the contemporary thrillers of Robin Cook or Michael Crichton. Not necessarily the worst models, but hardly bona fide SF.
