by Sean O'Brien
“I apologize, Yallia. I’d have spoken to you about it personally, but I thought a Session would be more…official.” Franc Kahlman had a resonant voice and a youthful appearance although he was in fact a year older than Yallia. Like all the other Originals, he had joined Yallia already in exile, but he had been expelled from the Dome at an older age.
“Official?” Yallia snapped.
“Yes. We’ve received word that your mother wishes to see you.”
Yallia gripped the table edge to keep the room from spinning. She had not expected that, although as soon as she heard the news, she realized such was inevitable.
“I haven’t seen her in six years,” Yallia said quietly, half to herself. She ruminated for a moment, then jerked her head up to meet Kahlman’s level gaze. “Why is this a matter for Session? Are you planning to call a Grand Session too? Why not? Let’s make this open to all. Ask the Family—should Yallia meet with her mother?” Yallia saw the effect her sarcasm had on the rest of the Originals. None of them looked at her—they simply stared at the table and fidgeted with their fingers. Kahlman was the only one to respond, his eyes never leaving Yallia’s.
“Yallia, this is a Family issue. Your mother is the only direct source of intelligence left to us for Domer activity.”
Yallia stood up slowly. “Is there anything else? Am I excused to see my grandchildren, or do I need Session permission for that, too?”
“Oh, sit down and stop acting like a fool,” came Lawson’s voice from the far end of the table. There was not quite a gasp from the other members of the table at this outburst of disrespect from their most junior member. Lawson had only joined the Outside four years ago, having manifested his mutation at the remarkably old age of twelve, and was still not quite ensconced into Original favor. Yallia herself, however, had taken a liking to the outspoken man and had extended him every kindness.
“I’m not the fool here, Lawson,” Yallia said, but there was a glint in her eye as she sat back down.
“You know very well that a visit from your mother was coming, and you knew a Session would be called to convince you to see her.”
“I have nothing to say to her,” Yallia said, her voice maintaining a warning tone.
Kahlman said, “But she brings with her information about the Domers. We need that information.”
“Why?” Yallia asked, turning to him. “All we do is collect data. I’ve wanted to strike at the Research Enclave for over a year now, and Grand Session just keeps voting to delay, to collect more information. And you usually lead that faction, Lawson.” Yallia swiveled her head and pointed an accusing finger at him. “What’s the current census report?” She asked the table in general.
A woman named Marbe spoke up. “There are ten thousand, nine hundred and eighty-four Family members as of this morning,” she said in precise tones.
“How many have reached Age?” Yallia asked.
Marbe did not hesitate. “One thousand, one hundred and two.”
Yallia surveyed the table, silently allowing the numbers to sink in. The number of battle-ready Family had remained almost constant for several years, but rarely was the exact number mentioned. “We are ready to attack the Enclave. We’ve been ready. We don’t need any more information, and we don’t need to wait seven years for our grandchildren to come of Age.”
“We can always use more information. There’s no such thing as too much intelligence,” Lawson rumbled.
“By that so-called logic, we’ll never attack,” Yallia shot back.
“I submit that this argument can wait,” Kahlman interjected. “Right now, I put the question to you directly, Madame Prime”—Kuhlman used her official title without rancor or irony—“will you speak to your mother?”
Yallia had not moved her eyes from Lawson’s even as Kalhman spoke.
“Yes. But I’m going alone. No braintap this time.”
Kuhlman seemed satisfied at this and sank back deeper into his chair. Yallia saw Lawson shift his weight.
“You don’t like that, Lawson?”
“No, but I suppose I’ll have to live with it.”
“Dome right you will. When does she want to come?” Yallia asked the table itself, looking around at the Originals around it.
“Tomorrow, just after daybreak,” Kuhlman answered. “Standard procedure—she’ll meet you in the Enclave. She made the usual request to see her grandchildren—”
“She doesn’t have any grandchildren,” Yallia mumbled.
Kulhman swept on as if she hadn’t spoken. “—but did not indicate she would venture Outside. The Enclave is ready for the visit.”
Yallia got up, suddenly tired. The rest of the Originals got to their feet.
“All right,” Yallia said. “If there’s nothing else, I’m adjourning this Session.” She gave a cursory look around the table, then waved the other Originals away. They left hurriedly.
“Law,” Yallia said to the muscled young man as he passed her to leave the chamber. She reached out and seized his arm.
He looked at her expectantly.
Yallia hesitated the barest second before speaking. He was a good man, despite his youth and inexperience—no, because of it. He was what the Family needed, a reminder that they were pioneers in every sense of the word. These Sessions were becoming staid. They were robbing the Family of the initiative to act. Lawson, and people like him, were their best hope. She had to convince him, above all the others, to abandon passivity and act.
“I’ve been thinking about having another child. A boy, this time. I’d like you to be the father.” She looked at him without irony, without any of the hardness she displayed in Session. Lawson had fathered one of her children already—a girl named Renne who had gone into the arts and was a moderately successful poet. Yallia knew he knew that she had had six children and had been cloned six times.
“Me, again?” Lawson was taken by surprise.
“I know. It’s unusual, but I like what we made in Renne. I’d like to see what comes of a boy between us.” Yallia knew what Lawson must be thinking. It was indeed highly unusual, and somewhat indecent, to have multiple children with the same partner, but Yallia was the Prime Original. She did not only follow fashion, she helped shape it. Besides, there was something fascinating in Lawson that drew her to him. He himself had only had four children so far—two by female Originals, one by a native Family woman, and one by an Original man from a different farmhouse. The latter had had minor difficulties during its gengineering process, but Yallia had managed to pull it through without too much trouble. All four children were shaping up to be excellent Family citizens of superior stock. But Yallia knew that was not all that drove her to seek another union with Lawson. He was different. He did not bow unquestioningly to her whims but stood in disagreement with her on many points. Yallia found herself inexplicably drawn to that facet of his personality.
“I see no reason to refuse, Yallia. Let me know when you are—”
“I’m ovulating in six days. We should try for the next few. If we don’t catch this cycle, we’ll keep trying.”
“Sexually?” Lawson asked, with no hint of expectation or lechery in his voice. The question was purely an information-seeking one.
“For a few cycles, at least. If that doesn’t work, then we’ll give science a chance.” Yallia looked at him and smiled. This time, her smile was not sarcastic or bittersweet. “I’ll see you tonight,” she said, and started back to the common area where her children and grandchildren waited.
* * *
“You’re looking very well, Yali,” Kuarta said when she saw her daughter. She tried not to notice the hatred riding high in her offspring’s eyes or feel the almost palpable resentment that seemed to come off Yallia’s very skin. Kuarta had seen her daughter hundreds of times since her exile more than twenty-four years before, but the visits had been increasingly hostile and therefore less frequent as Yallia grew older. It had been almost a quarteryear since her last visit.
“I
’ve asked you not to call me that,” Yallia said venomously. The two stood facing one another in the small Dome that was the Research Enclave. The research staff was sympathetic to Kuarta’s wishes and had provided her a small room, an unused lab, to meet with her daughter. They were alone.
“Sorry,” Kuarta said and sank heavily onto a chair.
“I suppose you’re here to find out how I’m doing. I heard about your mother’s death, of course.”
“Of course. But something tells me you don’t want me to ask, do you?”
Yallia was not biting. “No, I do not. I do not understand why such news should affect me. I barely knew her, and what little I do know of her makes me think I should be jubilant at her passing.”
“Like you would be at my own?” Kuarta sank the barb deep.
Yallia shrugged. “You bore me, you raised me for a short time, then you abandoned me here. Your death would mean nothing more than a loss of another Domer. Something we Outsiders do not mourn.” Yallia placed a bit of extra emphasis on the Domer term for the Family.
Kuarta did not let the hurt show. The last several visits had been almost as bad. But she did not wonder why her daughter saw her regardless of her feelings. She had hoped, years and years ago, it was out of some vague sense of family or even love, but her pragmatic mind had dismissed those thoughts. Yallia needed her mother for information about Dome society.
“Speaking of the Domes, what shall I tell you this time?” Kuarta said, a hint of sarcasm entering her voice.
“What are your numbers like?” Yallia asked without hesitation.
“I think there are about a quarter million or so.”
“Any more you are planning to exile?”
Kuarta winced at the accusation, but answered. “There are no new hybrids that I know of. Oh, you might be interested in this. Dr. Onizaka was honored at the seventy-fifth anniversary ball about ten days ago.”
Yallia nodded with mock enthusiasm. “Oh, fabulous. Nice to see the Domers appreciate good work. What’s she working on now—goats?”
Kuarta understood the reference. It was an Old Earth legend about transferring sins onto an animal. Dolen would probably be able to track down the exact story. “I’m not sure,” she answered.
“Wonderful. How wonderful for her. Why should a single instance of attempted genocide spoil an otherwise brilliant career raping an entire planet?”
Kuarta sighed and said, “Look, dear, if you want me to go, I’ll go. I can bring a detailed report on Dome activity for you the next time I come, all right?”
“But, Mother,” Yallia said with sickly sweet acidity, “how will you assuage your feelings of guilt and remorse if you don’t see me periodically?”
“You think this does that for me? You think I’m here so I can receive your abuse and feel like I have somehow atoned for what I did?” Kuarta was breathing heavily, trying to fight back tears. “I’ve spent almost twenty-five years in agony thinking about what I’ve done, thinking what I could have done differently. I see you not to atone, but because I love you.”
“You Domers must have a different definition for that term,” Yallia said dryly. “I don’t want to hear about your feelings, Kuarta. I need to collect data for my Family. This Research Enclave—how important is it to your Domes?
Kuarta searched her daughter’s face for a long time—looking for something she herself didn’t even understand. Perhaps she was looking for the remains of a young girl of three who had once been happy.
The question and its implications slowly sank into Kuarta’s mind. “What do you mean, how important is the Enclave?”
“If something were to happen to it, I mean. How would your Domes look upon the loss?”
Kuarta mulled the question over, then said, “You’re going to destroy it.”
“We’re tired of being studied.”
“When are you going to attack?”
“That hasn’t been decided yet.”
Kuarta leaned back in her chair. “It’ll be soon. Before I return to the Dome to warn them.”
Yallia smiled wolfishly. “Very good. When I go back to my own government, I will tell them you are warning the Dome of our actions. There will be no other choice but to attack immediately.”
“You’re using me to leverage your own government.”
“A small repayment for your actions years ago.”
The sudden return to personal attack caught Kuarta unprepared. She stood violently, the chair behind her crashing to the ground. “That’s why you’re going to kill a dozen people in the Enclave? To get back at me?”
“Don’t be melodramatic, Mother. It’s a military maneuver, nothing more.”
“Let me arrange for the Enclave personnel to leave with me, at least.”
“Why? What’s a few dead Domers?”
“I don’t believe you. You can’t be this cavalier about human life.”
Yallia snorted. “Domer life, you mean.”
“Human life.” Kuarta said, angrily. She was suddenly reminded of Jene and Dolen arguing a similar point twenty-four years ago.
“Domers would see a distinction.”
Kuarta did not dispute that: Yallia was right. But there were still twelve lives at stake. She took another tack. “If you kill the scientists inside the Enclave, the Domes will respond with force. Do you want that?”
Yallia looked uncertain for a half second, then her face returned to stoic resolve. She rose and said, “All right. Your Domers won’t be killed. I’d tell them to leave now, because we won’t wait. Unless they want to see our…mutations in action.” Kuarta was momentarily frozen in terror. What had her little girl become?
“I—I’ll start the evacuation,” Kuarta said, and found her arms preparing themselves for a hug. She put them back down awkwardly. Yallia watched her with scorn, then left the room swiftly, not looking back.
Chapter 14
“You’ve got a predator eyeing us,” Khadre said to her companion, looking over his shoulder at the instrument panel.
“I know. I’m secreting countermeasures right now,” Viktur said, manipulating the controls of the biomech submersible.
Khadre watched the monitors intently, keeping close watch on the sleek, shark-like animal that had been gliding towards the sub. As she watched, the predator slowed, then veered off sharply, disappearing into the darkness.
“It worked. He’s gone,” she reported.
Viktur grunted. “How much have we got left?”
“Enough. In a few hours, we’ll be full again.” Khadre watched the display for a few seconds, noting the slow increase in countermeasure fluid as the biomech sub’s glandular system churned out more of the foul milky substance. The sub was capable of staying under for quite a long time, although many of the more mechanical systems would have to shut down and recharge periodically.
“You need to eat soon,” Khadre noted, pointing at a sector on the holographic readout.
“I know. But I’ve got a good hour left before power-down. I just want to clear this ridge first,” Viktur said, eyes locked on the drone’s forward sensor image. The visual sensor was almost useless at this depth of four kilometers—the drone’s bioluminescence provided light for only a few meters, even with the supersensitive photoelectric sensors the drone was equipped with. High frequency sonar was far more effective at this depth, but Viktur hesitated to use it. Khadre’s working theory that at least some of the marine life must use sonar to communicate kept him skittish about broadcasting inadvertent messages to the underwater population.
“Still nothing?” Khadre asked softly. Viktur didn’t answer, though from his body language she could guess the answer was “no.”
Khadre looked down at the pressure-glass bottom of the tiny research skiff. Somewhere down there was the biomech drone the two had nicknamed “Nimmo,” after a character in a book Viktur had claimed to have read. She had designed the drone with her dother Rann, an Original who had raised her as a dother despite having no genetic connectio
n to her. Rann had been skilled in biomechanology and had trained Khadre well. “The Domers don’t go in for deep marine studies,” Rann had told her during one of their many late-night sessions in the lab. “They have only scratched the edge of the ocean so far.”
“Why not?” Khadre had asked her.
“I don’t know. Not enough people, too much cost, I suppose. Keeping those Domes functional is their main concern. That and terraforming the planet. Doesn’t leave a lot of energy or interest for the sea.”
Rann knew what she was talking about. No one was really studying the sea, at least not the deep ocean, the way Khadre and Viktur were. That was what had pushed Khadre to the water. She could be a pioneer here. Although, she had to admit, there were many days on which she wondered if the Domers weren’t right to ignore the sea. She had spent the last nine months studying various marine flora and fauna, categorizing, labeling (the novelty of naming the creatures herself had long since worn off, although her companion still delighted in the game) and otherwise classifying organism after organism, without anything truly revolutionary happening. She knew from countless discussions with the older scientists that discovery often came after years of study, not months; still, she was beginning to wonder if the sea would reveal anything of interest to those outside her field. She longed for the day when what she discovered would truly be her own.
Except, of course, for Viktur. She looked up at him and smiled. He was a good man, he just never saw further ahead than a few hours. He could solve almost any task that was set him because of his single-mindedness, but a visionary he was not. That was what had drawn Khadre to him. She planned on asking him soon for a child, hoping his practicality would balance her idealism and result in a perfect blend of genes. She was not in love with him—Viktur did not rouse passion or lust. Khadre was under no illusions as to why she was attracted to him; he would make a good father. That was more than enough for her.
The two had been working on the skiff for nine months, but had known each other for many years, having gone through upper school together. He had been impressed by her “calm fire,” as he had put it. “You always seem ready to jump for joy at some discovery,” he had said on the night he had proposed the working partnership. “I want to be there when it happens.” Khadre had kissed him then—not emotionlessly, but affectionately.
