A stand-alone story.

"Pregnant!"

It isn't so much a question as a squeak of terror. She can't be pregnant. There's no way she-

The screen overlay on the bathroom mirror flickers and the voice of the diagnostic program - soothing, motherly and hand-picked years ago for those qualities - says, "The blood test confirms it."

She jerks her hand away from the palm pad as if it stings, as it did when taking blood samples.

"Explain," she says.

"Human chorionic gonadotrophin has been identified in the sample at a level of three hundred and six million IU per milligram. This level is consistent with pregnancy at four to five weeks."

That isn't quite what she'd meant.

"Four to five weeks?" she squeaks.

A diagram of a foetus at four weeks old appears on the bathroom mirror. The program shows the approximate measurements and notes about symptoms in early pregnancy. Her symptoms. This thing, this lizard shape, is sitting in her womb, an uninvited guest. A parasite that sickens and weakens its host.

"You're wrong. The diagnosis is off."

She leans against the sink, clutches it as if it's the only solid thing left in the world.

The program makes a noise, a concerned umm, before saying, "Would you like to make an appointment with a physical or mental health worker to discuss your diagnosis?"

"No."

A torn whisper. A torn future. How can she work pregnant? How can she be pregnant?

"A medical file needs to be created for the foetus," the program continues as if nothing is wrong, as if the world isn't falling apart, "Please give identification details of the father."

She laughs, "There is no father."

There can be no father.

The program does not respond and she imagines it as a health worker, lips pursed in disapproval. She shrugs and walks away. The program can reach her anywhere in the apartment and she can't stay frozen in front of the mirror. If she carries on as if nothing is different then perhaps nothing will be.

"Once the first trimester has passed, an appointment will be arranged with a physical health worker at a local facility so that the foetus can undergo tests. These will include genetic fingerprinting."

She pauses, kettle in hand.

"The father of the foetus will be identified as a result," the program adds.

She's flippant as she fills the kettle, "Your guess is as good as mine!"

Another pause then "Permission to check location logs requested."

"Granted."

The filled kettle is plugged in. She watches. It doesn't boil.

"You'll find," she says, "That I've not met any men, much less shared genetic material with them."

"That is not possible," in admonition followed by the obligatory, legally required "Accessing data and downloading into medical file."

She laughs again, bitter as the coffee she intends to make. This is her first morning off from working in three weeks and she intends to spend it at home, resting. For the last two months, her life has been a cycle of work, home, sleep, work. There's been no time for anything but being at the office, being at home or being in the transport network somewhere in between.

The program makes another concerned umm noise but nothing further.

"Problem?" she asks.

"There are no records of the necessary interaction. You have had no visitors and have not visited any men. You have not been in locations conducive to sexual relations."

The turn of phrase makes her giggle, reminds her of Mum's frustration with the limitations of AI. It's not the same as a real doctor, as she says.

"Suggest contacting local health facility to organise calibration of diagnostic program."

The kettle boils and she finally makes her cup of coffee. She feels better. The diagnostic program has acknowledged it needs calibration, the diagnosis is wrong, there is no parasite.

Still thinking of Mum, she sidles over to the noticeboard. The photos Mum sent as part of her last birthday package are scattered over the screen. There's one of Mum, not a year older than she is now, holding a baby, her. A proud father and two older siblings stand by. The resemblance between herself and Mum is striking. Doubly so given her recent scare. Disturbed, she flips another image to the top.

Reminding her that it waits for instruction, the diagnostic program dings.

Nan holding Mum, at much the same age, in much the same pose. Gramps looking on proudly in the time before he became convinced that Mum wasn't his, before the divorce. The resemblance of mother and child hits her again.

Another image, Nan and her mother. No other family members on the photo. The next image, another generation. More strong resemblance. The remaining three images are older, pre digital photography. They've been scanned in but the resemblance is there as well.

She feels sick. She feels as if these women are trying to tell her something. She doesn't want to know.

The diagnostic program dings again.

She turns the image of Nan and Mum over to see the notes. She grabs the first image and checks the notes there. Mum and Nan were the same age, within minutes, when their only daughters were born. She tries a few mental calculations, working back to conception, but fails. Is it worth pulling up details for her uncles and brother?

"Check my genetic fingerprint against Mum's."

"Checking without copying personal information," the program responds followed, moments later, by "Error. Record contamination or confusion. Fingerprint is the same. Arrange calibration of diagnostic program."

She frowns and flicks through the photos, "Identical samples?"

"Arrange calibration of diagnostic program."

She leans her suddenly cold forehead against the noticeboard, ignoring the almost identical women. The program doesn't need calibrating, the diagnosis stands, the parasite exists.