by Nancy Kress
“Alice—what is it?”
“Don’t you think I have enough to put up with at school already?” Alice shouted. “Everybody knows, but at least when you stayed quiet it didn’t matter too much! They’d stopped teasing me! Why did you have to do it?”
“Do what?” Leisha said, bewildered.
Alice threw something at her: a hard-copy morning paper, on newsprint flimsier than the Camden systems used. The paper dropped open at Leisha’s feet. She stared at her own picture, three columns wide, with Kenzo Yagai. The headline said, “Yagai and the Future: Room for the Rest of Us? Y-Energy Inventor Confers With ‘Sleep-Free’ Daughter of Mega-Financier Roger Camden.”
Alice kicked the paper. “It was on TV last night too—on TV. I work hard not to look stuck-up or creepy, and you go and do this! Now Julie probably won’t even invite me to her slumber party next week!” She rushed up the broad curving stairs to her room.
Leisha looked down at the paper. She heard Kenzo Yagai’s voice in her head: The dogs bark but the caravan moves on. She looked at the empty stairs. Aloud she said, “Alice—your hair looks really pretty curled like that.”
4
“I WANT TO MEET THE REST OF THEM,” LEISHA SAID. “Why have you kept them from me this long?”
“I haven’t kept them from you at all,” Camden said. “Not offering is not the same as denial. Why shouldn’t you be the one to do the asking? You’re the one who now wants it.”
Leisha looked at him. She was fifteen, in her last year at the Sauley School. “Why didn’t you offer?”
“Why should I?”
“I don’t know,” Leisha said. “But you gave me everything else.”
“Including the freedom to ask for what you want.”
Leisha looked for the contradiction, and found it. “Most things that you provided for my education I didn’t ask for, because I didn’t know enough to ask and you as the adult did. But you’ve never offered the opportunity for me to meet any of the other sleepless mutants—”
“Don’t use that word,” Camden said sharply.
“—so you must either think it was not essential to my education or else you had another motive for not wanting me to meet them.”
“Wrong,” Camden said. “There’s a third possibility. That I think meeting them is essential to your education, that I do want you to, but this issue provided a chance to further the education of your self-initiative by waiting for you to ask.”
“All right,” Leisha said, a little defiantly; there seemed to be a lot of defiance between them lately, for no good reason. She squared her shoulders. Her new breasts thrust forward. “I’m asking. How many of the Sleepless are there, who are they, and where are they?”
Camden said, “If you’re using that term—‘the Sleepless’—you’ve already done some reading on your own. So you probably know that there are 1,082 of you so far in the United States, more in foreign countries, most of them in major metropolitan areas. Seventy-nine are in Chicago, most of them still small children. Only nineteen anywhere are older than you.”
Leisha didn’t deny reading any of this. Camden leaned forward in his study chair to peer at her. Leisha wondered if he needed glasses. His hair was completely gray now, sparse and stiff, like lonely broom straws. The Wall Street Journal listed him among the hundred richest men in America; Women’s Wear Daily pointed out that he was the only billionaire in the country who did not move in the society of international parties, charity balls, and social secretaries. Camden’s jet ferried him to business meetings around the world, to the chairmanship of the Yagai Economics Institute, and to very little else. Over the years he had grown richer, more reclusive, and more cerebral. Leisha felt a rush of her old affection.
She threw herself sideways into a leather chair, her long slim legs dangling over the arm. Absently she scratched a mosquito bite on her thigh. “Well, then, I’d like to meet Richard Keller.” He lived in Chicago and was the beta-test Sleepless closest to her own age. He was seventeen.
“Why ask me? Why not just go?”
Leisha thought there was a note of impatience in his voice. He liked her to explore things first, then report on them to him later. Both parts were important.
Leisha laughed. “You know what, Daddy? You’re predictable.”
Camden laughed, too. In the middle of the laugh Susan came in. “He certainly is not. Roger, what about that meeting in Buenos Aires on Thursday? Is it on or off?” When he didn’t answer, her voice grew shriller. “Roger? I’m talking to you!”
Leisha averted her eyes. Two years ago Susan had finally left genetic research to run Camden’s house and schedule; before that she had tried hard to do both. Since she had left Biotech, it seemed to Leisha, Susan had changed. Her voice was tighter. She was more insistent that Cook and the gardener follow her directions exactly, without deviation. Her blond braids had become stiff sculptured waves of platinum.
“It’s on,” Roger said.
“Well, thanks for at least answering. Am I going?”
“If you like.”
“I like.”
Susan left the room. Leisha rose and stretched. Her long legs rose on tiptoe. It felt good to reach, to stretch, to feel sunlight from the wide windows wash over her face. She smiled at her father, and found him watching her with an unexpected expression.
“Leisha—”
“What?”
“See Keller. But be careful.”
“Of what?”
But Camden wouldn’t answer.
THE VOICE ON THE PHONE HAD BEEN NONCOMMITTAL. “Leisha Camden? Yes, I know who you are. Three o’clock on Thursday?” The house was modest, a thirty-year-old colonial on a quiet suburban street where small children on bicycles could be watched from the front window. Few roofs had more than one Y-energy cell. The trees, huge old sugar maples, were beautiful.
“Come in,” Richard Keller said.
He was no taller than she, stocky, with a bad case of acne. Probably no genetic alterations except sleep, Leisha guessed. He had thick dark hair, a low forehead, and bushy black brows. Before he closed the door Leisha saw him stare at her car and driver, parked in the driveway next to a rusty ten-speed bike.
“I can’t drive yet,” she said. “I’m still fifteen.”
“It’s easy to learn,” Richard said. “So, you want to tell me why you’re here?”
Leisha liked his directness. “To meet some other Sleepless.”
“You mean you never have? Not any of us?”
“You mean the rest of you know each other?” She hadn’t expected that.
“Come to my room, Leisha.”
She followed him to the back of the house. No one else seemed to be home. His room was large and airy, filled with computers and filing cabinets. A rowing machine sat in one corner. It looked like a shabbier version of the room of any bright classmate at the Sauley School, except there was more space without a bed. She walked over to the computer screen.
“Hey—you working on Boesc equations?”
“On an application of them.”
“To what?”
“Fish migration patterns.”
Leisha smiled. “Yeah, that would work. I never thought of that.”
Richard seemed not to know what to do with her smile. He looked at the wall, then at her chin. “You interested in Gaea patterns? In the environment?”
“Well, no,” Leisha confessed. “Not particularly. I’m going to study politics at Harvard. Pre-law. But of course we had Gaea patterns at school.”
Richard’s gaze finally came unstuck from her face. He ran a hand through his dark hair. “Sit down, if you want.”
Leisha sat, looking appreciatively at the wall posters, shifting green on blue, like ocean currents. “I like those. Did you program them yourself?”
“You’re not at all what I pictured,” Richard said.
“How did you picture me?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Stuck-up. Superior. Shallow, despite your IQ.”
&n
bsp; She was more hurt than she had expected to be.
Richard blurted, “You’re one of only two Sleepless who’re really rich. You and Jennifer Sharifi. But you already know that.”
“No, I don’t. I’ve never checked.”
He took the chair beside her, stretching his stocky legs straight in front of him, in a slouch that had nothing to do with relaxation. “It makes sense, really. Rich people don’t have their children genetically modified to be superior—they think any offspring of theirs is already superior. By their values. And poor people can’t afford it. We Sleepless are upper-middle class, no more. Children of professors, scientists, people who value brains and time.”
“My father values brains and time,” Leisha said. “He’s the biggest supporter of Kenzo Yagai.”
“Oh, Leisha, do you think I don’t already know that? Are you flashing me or what?”
Leisha said with great deliberateness, “I’m talking to you.” But the next minute she could feel the hurt break through on her face.
“I’m sorry,” Richard muttered. He shot off his chair and paced to the computer and back. “I am sorry. But I don’t…I don’t understand what you’re doing here.”
“I’m lonely,” Leisha said, astonished at herself. She looked up at him. “It’s true. I’m lonely. I am. I have friends and Daddy and Alice. But no one really knows, really understands—what? I don’t know what I’m saying.”
Richard smiled. The smile changed his whole face, opened up its dark planes to the light. “I do. Oh, do I. What do you do when they say, ‘I had such a dream last night’?”
“Yes!” Leisha said. “But that’s even really minor. It’s when I say, ‘I’ll look that up for you tonight’ and they get that funny look on their face that means, ‘She’ll do it while I’m asleep.’”
“But that’s even really minor,” Richard said. “It’s when you’re playing basketball in the gym after supper and then you go to the diner for food and then you say, ‘Let’s have a walk by the lake,’ and they say, ‘I’m really tired. I’m going home to bed now.’”
“But that’s really minor,” Leisha said, jumping up. “It’s when you really are absorbed by the movie and then you get the point and it’s so goddamn beautiful you leap up and say, ‘Yes! Yes!’ and Susan says, ‘Leisha, really, you’d think nobody but you ever enjoyed anything before.’”
“Who’s Susan?” Richard said.
The mood was broken. But not really; Leisha could say, “My step-mother,” without much discomfort over what Susan had promised to be and what she had become. Richard stood inches from her, smiling that joyous smile, understanding, and suddenly relief washed over Leisha so strong that she walked straight over to him and put her arms around his neck, only tightening them when she felt his startled jerk. She started to sob—she, Leisha, who never cried.
“Hey,” Richard said. “Hey.”
“Brilliant,” Leisha said, laughing. “Brilliant remark.”
She could feel his embarrassed smile. “Wanta see my fish migration curves instead?”
“No,” Leisha sobbed, and he went on holding her, patting her back awkwardly, telling her without words that she was home.
Camden waited up for her, although it was past midnight. He had been smoking heavily. Through the blue air he said quietly, “Did you have a good time, Leisha?”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad,” he said, and put out his last cigarette, and climbed the stairs—slowly, stiffly, he was nearly seventy now—to bed.
THEY WENT EVERYWHERE TOGETHER FOR NEARLY A YEAR: swimming, dancing, the museums, the theater, the library. Richard introduced her to the others, a group of twelve kids between fourteen and nineteen, all of them intelligent and eager. All Sleepless.
Leisha learned.
Tony Indivino’s parents, like her own, had divorced. But Tony, fourteen, lived with his mother, who had not particularly wanted a Sleepless child, while his father, who had, acquired a red sports car and a young girlfriend who designed ergonomic chairs in Paris. Tony was not allowed to tell anyone—relatives, schoolmates—that he was Sleepless. “They’ll think you’re a freak,” his mother said, eyes averted from her son’s face. The one time Tony disobeyed her and told a friend that he never slept, his mother beat him. Then she moved the family to a new neighborhood. He was nine years old.
Jeanine Carter, almost as long-legged and slim as Leisha, was training for the Olympics in ice skating. She practiced twelve hours a day, hours no Sleeper still in high school could ever have. So far the newspapers had not picked up the story. Jeanine was afraid that if they did, they would somehow not let her compete.
Jack Bellingham, like Leisha, would start college in September. Unlike Leisha, he had already started his career. The practice of law had to wait for law school; the practice of investing required only money. Jack didn’t have much, but his precise financial analyses parlayed $600 saved from summer jobs to $3,000 through stock-market investing, then to $10,000, and then he had enough to qualify for information-fund speculation. Jack was fifteen, not old enough to make legal investments; the transactions were all in the name of Kevin Baker, the oldest of the Sleepless, who lived in Austin. Jack told Leisha, “When I hit 84 percent profit over two consecutive quarters, the data analysts logged onto me. Just sniffing. Well, that’s their job, even when the overall amounts are actually small. It’s the patterns they care about. If they take the trouble to cross-reference data banks and come up with the fact that Kevin is a Sleepless, will they try to stop us from investing somehow?”
“That’s paranoid,” Leisha said.
“No, it’s not,” Jeanine said. “Leisha, you don’t know.”
“You mean because I’ve been protected by my father’s money and caring,” Leisha said. No one grimaced; all of them confronted ideas openly, without shadowy allusions. Without dreams.
“Yes,” Jeanine said. “Your father sounds terrific. And he raised you to think that achievement should not be fettered—Jesus Christ, he’s a Yagaiist. Well, good. We’re glad for you.” She said it without sarcasm. Leisha nodded. “But the world isn’t always like that. They hate us.”
“That’s too strong,” Carol said. “Not hate.”
“Well, maybe,” Jeanine said. “But they’re different from us. We’re better, and they naturally resent that.”
“I don’t see what’s natural about it,” Tony said. “Why shouldn’t it be just as natural to admire what’s better? We do. Does any one of us resent Kenzo Yagai for his genius? Or Nelson Wade, the physicist? Or Catherine Raduski?”
“We don’t resent them because we are better,” Richard said. “Q.E.D.”
“What we should do is have our own society,” Tony said. “Why should we allow their regulations to restrict our natural, honest achievements? Why should Jeanine be barred from skating against them and Jack from investing on their same terms just because we’re Sleepless? Some of them are brighter than others of them. Some have greater persistence. Well, we have greater concentration, more biochemical stability, and more time. All men are not created equal.”
“Be fair, Jack—no one has been barred from anything yet,” Jeanine said.
“But we will be.”
“Wait,” Leisha said. She was deeply troubled by the conversation. “I mean, yes, in many ways we’re better. But you quoted out of context, Tony. The Declaration of Independence doesn’t say all men are created equal in ability. It’s talking about rights and power; it means that all are created equal under the law. We have no more right to a separate society or to being free of society’s restrictions than anyone else does. There’s no other way to freely trade one’s efforts, unless the same contractual rules apply to all.”
“Spoken like a true Yagaiist,” Richard said, squeezing her hand.
“That’s enough intellectual discussion for me,” Carol said, laughing. “We’ve been at this for hours. We’re at the beach, for Chrissake. Who wants to swim with me?”
“I do,” Jeanine s
aid. “Come on, Jack.”
All of them rose, brushing sand off their suits, discarding sunglasses. Richard pulled Leisha to her feet. But just before they ran into the water, Tony put his skinny hand on her arm. “One more question, Leisha. Just to think about. If we achieve better than most other people, and if we trade with the Sleepers when it’s mutually beneficial, making no distinction there between the strong and the weak—what obligation do we have to those so weak they don’t have anything to trade with us? We’re already going to give more than we get; do we have to do it when we get nothing at all? Do we have to take care of their deformed and handicapped and sick and lazy and shiftless with the products of our work?”
“Do the Sleepers have to?” Leisha countered.
“Kenzo Yagai would say no. He’s a Sleeper.”
“He would say they would receive the benefits of contractual trade even if they aren’t direct parties to the contract. The whole world is better-fed and healthier because of Y-energy.”
“Come on!” Jeanine yelled. “Leisha, they’re ducking me! Jack, you stop that! Leisha, help me!”
Leisha laughed. Just before she grabbed for Jeanine, she caught the look on Richard’s face, and on Tony’s: Richard frankly lustful, Tony angry. At her. But why? What had she done, except argue in favor of dignity and trade?
Then Jack threw water on her, and Carol pushed Jack into the warm spray, and Richard was there with his arms around her, laughing.
When she got the water out of her eyes, Tony was gone.
MIDNIGHT. “OKAY,” CAROL SAID. “WHO’S FIRST?”
The six teenagers in the brambly clearing looked at each other. A Y-lamp, kept on low for atmosphere, cast weird shadows across their faces and over their bare legs. Around the clearing Roger Camden’s trees stood thick and dark, a wall between them and the closest of the estate’s outbuildings. It was very hot. August air hung heavy, sullen. They had voted against bringing an air-conditioned Y-field because this was a return to the primitive, the dangerous; let it be primitive.
