"No." Even with feedback and meditation, those times had been terrible for Myfwany; Yolande had only been able to suffer in sympathy. The child—
Gwen
, she reminded herself— Gwen would never know that useless pain.
"Next, we come to a number of physical improvements.
Mostly by selectin' within the normal range of variation. Fo'
example, we know the gene-groups involved with general intelligence… Genius is mo' elusive, but we can raise the testable IQ to an average of 143 with the methods available. Fo' your clone, that would mean about fifteen percent up; also, we've been able to map fo' complete memory control, autistic idiot savant mathematical concentration, and so forth. On the athletic side, we build up the heart-lung system, tweak the hemoglobin ratios, alter some of the muscle groups and their attachments, thicken an' strengthen the bones, eliminate the weaknesses of ligaments—no mo' knee injuries— and so fo'th."
"The result?" Yolande said.
"Well, yo' know, a chimp is smaller than a man… and many times stronger. After the 'tweaking,' the average strength will increase by a factor of four, endurance by three, reflexes by two, twenty-five percent increase in sensory effectiveness. Greater resistance to disease, almost total, faster healin', no heart attacks… slightly lower body-fat ratio… perfect pitch, photographic memory, things like that."
"So." Yolande's chin sank on her chest. She had wanted…
He's
right. Gwen has to have the best.
As I'd
have wanted for
Myfwany.
"And?"
"Well, this is the most advanced part. We've been able to transfer a number of the autonomic functions to conscious control… Not all at once! Imagine a baby bein' able to control its heartbeat! No, we're keyin' them to the hormonal changes accompanyin' puberty, fo' the most part. Like any Citizen child learns, with meditation an' feedback, only it'll be
easy
fo' them, natural, able to go much further. Control of the reproductive cycle. Heartbeat, skin tension, circulation, pupil dilation, pain…"
He looked at the screen. "Yo' friend was in fine condition, but she had to fight fo' it, a lot of the time, didn't she? Your Gwen, she'll be able to set her metabolic rate at will. Eat anythin', and it'll be easy to stay in prime shape."
Yolande remembered Myfwany sighing and turning the dessert menu face-down. A wave that was dark and bitter surged up, closing her throat.
This is absurd,
she thought, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment before nodding to the man to continue.
"A lot of human communication's by pheromones: sex, dominance, anger, fear. We increase the conscious awareness of
'em, an' make the subjects able to deliberately govern their own output." He grinned. "Ought to make social life real interestin'.
That's about it, 'cept fo' one thing." A weighty pause; Yolande endured it.
"We've been lookin' into agin', of course. No magic cures, I'm afraid. The whole system isn't designed to last. Normal unimproved variety, yo' and me, Tetrarch, we wear out at a hundred an' twenty absolute maximum. Modern medicine can keep us goin' longer, maybe right out to the limit by the time you're my age, but that's it. Then,"—he shrugged—"yo' know that Yankee story, about the steamcar made so well everythin' wore out at once?"
Yolande felt herself snarl at the name of the enemy, hid it with a cough, nodded.
"Best we can do is stretch it. To about two hundred fifty years fo' the next generation."
Her eyes opened wide; that was something worth boasting about. "Show me," she said.
The column of data beside the figure of Myfwany disappeared; a baby's form replaced it. The infant grew, aged; limbs lengthening, face firming. Yolande stared, caught her breath as it paused at fourteen, eighteen, twenty.
Oh, my darlin'!
something wailed within her.
No. Not
quite
the same; the computer could not show the marks experience laid on a human's face. A few other minor changes, fewer freckles, slightly lighter hair. If you looked very closely, something different about the joints, in the way the muscles grouped beneath the skin.
"Gwen," she whispered to herself. For a moment the responsibility daunted her; this was a twenty-year duty she was undertaking, not a whim. A person, a Draka, someone she would have to play parent to as long as they lived. Give love, teach honor. Then:
"Yes. I understand, Doctor; that's entirely satisfactory."
She paused. "Just out of curiosity, what's planned fo' the serfs along these lines?"
He relaxed. "Oh, much less. That was debated at the highest levels of authority, an' they decided to do very little beyond selectin' within the normal human range. Same sort of clean-up on things like hereditary diseases. Average the height about 50
millimeters lower than ours. No IQ's below 90, which'll bring the average up to 110. No improvements or increase in lifespan, beyond that, so they'll be closer to the original norm than the Race. Some selection within the personality spectrum; towards gentle, emotional, nonagressive types. About what yo'd expect."
He laughed. "An' a chromosone change, so that they're not interfertile with us any mo'; the boys can run rampant among the wenches as always without messin' up our plans."
"Yes," she said again, interest drifting elsewhere. "When can we do it?"
"Tomorrow would be fine, Tetrarch. The process of modifyin'
the ova is mostly automatic. Viral an' enzymic, actually…
Tomorrow at 1000 hours?"
Yolande looked down into her brandy snifter. It was her second, and she could barely remember tasting it. Barely remember tasting the meal, or even pushing the food around the plate; the
gelato
lay melting before her. It no longer seemed like treason that the body carried on; it was treason that the mind healed, kept trying to involve her in things. She took another sip, welcoming a numbness that was easier imposed from without than within.
I have to watch this,
some distant part of her mind told her. Myfwany's honor was part of her now; she bore it in trust. She must be faultless, at least in the eyes of the world and the Race, or that trust would be disgraced.
She looked up; it was full dark, here on the terrace beside the Amo. Little was left of the prewar town this close to the river, little except the timeless arcs of the bridges. Her people had turned the banks into parks and pleasanoes like this little outdoor restaurant; light globes on cast-iron stands were scattered among the tall dark shapes of the cypresses and the lush late-summer flowers. A few boats went by, and she could see folk strolling the colored-brick walks, hear low talking and music. Above, the stars were out, and the sickle moon. It was still warm enough to bring a slight prickle under the armpits of her uniform tunic.
Yolande strained her eyes. Was that a light, just across the line of the Lunar terminator? She decided not. Someday the city her folk were building there would be visible from Earth, but not yet. There were moving lights aplenty above, though; one to the west that might be a laser-lift from the Herakulopolis launcher at the Straits of Gibraltar.
It's there I should be
, she thought.
Out where there's
something to do.
Where there's an enemy to kill.
You could forget a great deal, in war. Even loneliness.
"Excuse me, Tetrarch," a voice said. Yolande brought her eyes down and saw a man standing respectfully near the other side of the table. About her age, with an Aerospace Corps thumb-ring.
Unremarkable, with close-cropped hair a dark-blond color, blue eyes, skin the startling white of someone not exposed to sunlight for some time. "Mind if I join you? Teller Markman, Centurion, Drive Officer on the Conqueror."
She blinked. That was the deep-space probe, the fourth Jovian expedition; it had just barely avoided the Americans on its return through the Belt. Yolande looked him up and down; he raised a brow at the coldness of it, then relaxed as she smiled lopsided.
"Why not?" she said. There were worse distractions.
"Sorry," Teller Markman said, easing out of her and away.
Yolande gave him a final squeeze and unwrapped her legs from around his.
She sighed and rolled onto her back, stroking the knuckles of one hand down his cheek.
" I mmmm, no, don't apologize, yo' were a complete gentleman," she said dreamily.
Freya, I'm tired. I
think I could
sleep now
. They were in her room at the hotel; it was dark, except for the light and breeze that leaked in around the curtains from the balcony. Odd, how a man's sweat smells heavier than a woman's. "I usually don't, not the first time with someone; always did enjoy givin' it as much as gettin'." A long yawn.
"That's the closest I've come since India, anyways. Stopped tryin'
altogether, fo' a whiles."
He offered an arm, and she curled closer.
" Want me to stay?" he asked.
"Yes, thanks. Nevah did like bein' alone after."
And you're
actually quite sweet.
Far too many Draka males acquired bad habits, brought up on serf wenches, but Teller hadn't even wanted to enter, until she told him to. Then again, there isn't much in the way of bedwench on a long cruise, is there? He had had some fascinating stories to tell, things that didn't get into the official records.
Teller hesitated for a moment. "Mmmm… like to stay in contact?"
Would I?
she thought. The immediate impulse was to lash out, to defend her solitude.
Pull yourself
together,
she scolded internally.
Myfwany wouldn't want me to live a hermit.
Wouldn't be good for the
child either, the effects on me.
"Yes, Teller, I think so. Understand, though, I'll be honest with yo', a few things yo'd better know. First, do things work out well, it'd be my first time keeping company with a man fo' mo' than a single time. I'm about sixty-forty the other way, I think."
"I thought so, rathah," he said. Well, that would have been obvious from some of her responses; still, it was perceptive. "I'm not in a hurry, iff'n yo' not, Yolande."
She nodded against the resilient muscle of his shoulder and ran a hand over his chest; so strange…
"The othah, thing, let's keep it straight from the beginnin', this is just friendly-like. My lover who died in India, she was the one and only fo' me."
He nodded into her hair. "I understand." Yolande chuckled to herself; was that relief?
Well, I think we suit each other's needs
for a while, friend Teller. And I think we will be friends.
"Feel like talkin' about it?" he continued.
She sighed and closed her eyes. "Not much, but I should," she said. "
Or so the alienist says
.
Besides,
what is there to talk
about, but what your mind turns on?
"Clonin", well, I think it's the right thing to do."
"Surprised yo' bein' so easy on this wench," Teller remarked.
"Oh—" Yolande stirred a little uneasily. "Well, she was at fault, but not to
blame
, y'know? It's a weakness of mine, I'm too easy on my serfs, I'll admit. Not with that one, though; I think I broke her mind with the controller. Trouble was, it made me feel like shit. Seeding her womb may quiet her down, and it'll be a way of her makin' amends without actually hurtin' her. Don't know if I'll let her nurse it, though. Depends on how she turns out."
"Don't think it's weakness, just a delicate sensibility," Teller said gallantly." 'Sides, serfs aren't machinery, and I don't much like those who treat them like they were. They have to obey, an'
be punished if they don't. Beyond that, no harm in kindness." He stretched. "Want to sleep?"
"Hmmm. Actually, not yet."
Yolande looked up as the serf walked into the room. Marya was dressed in a disposable paper shirt; the medical technician pulled it off and pushed her toward the couch. It was at the center of the room, surrounded like a dentist's chair with incomprehensible machinery, near a curved console with multiple display screens. The room was deep within the Clinic, far from the morning sun; the American captive's eyes blinked at the harsh overhead lights, reflected from gleaming white tile and synthetic. Her eyes darted from the doctor, busy at the console, to the other serf meditech in white who waited by the table.
She started uncontrollably as she saw Yolande rise from the corner.
"Nhhh!" she gasped, then clenched her teeth, staring at the palm-sized controller clipped to the Draka's belt. Her left hand hugged the left wrist to her stomach, as if she could bury the controller cuff on it into her flesh, away from the radio commands.
Yolande forced herself to watch the flinch, the eyes gone wide and white around the iris.
I should be
enjoying this,
she thought, hating her weakness. Remembering the American's stubbornness. Instead it made her faintly nauseated, like a wounded dog. The faint medicinal-ozone smell of the Clinic was a sourness at the back of her mouth.
" Marya!" she said sharply. "Yo' won't be punished, as long as yo' obey. Do as these people tell yo'."
"Mmmmistis," the serf stammered. Docile but quivering-tense, she waited while the other technician laid a paper sheet on the table, then climbed onto it and lay back.
"Feet in the stirrups," the serf technician said. "Thatsa-right, little momma, this no hurt ata-all." She buckled the restraints at neck, arms, waist, knees, and thighs. "Now, we geta you ready for the visitor." She began to rig a visual barrier below the serfs neck.
"No," Yolande said, walking closer. The serf looked up with a respectful dip of the head. "No, I want her to see it all."
The meditech looked towards the doctor, mimicked his slight shrug. "
Si
, Mistis." She touched controls instead, and the equipment moved. The couch bent into a shallow curve, raising Marya's shoulders and buttocks. The stirrups moved apart and back with a slight hydraulic whine, presenting the serfs genitals.
"Thisa no hurt," the meditech repeated. She pulled down a dangling line, attached it to Marya's throat.