Daughter of Elysium

by Joan Slonczewski

  His hand stopped, tense. “What about it?”

  “She thinks your project will enable Elysians to bear children of their own wombs. She says that will violate the treaty.”

  Blackbear shook his head. “We’re still a decade away from that. Maybe a century,” he added ruefully. “It’s a lot more complicated than I thought.”

  “That’s what I told her. But your new approach sounds hopeful, doesn’t it?”

  “The genome project will enable Elysians to generate embryos with their own chromosomes. But the embryos will still develop in the shon.” He shook his head again. “I think Elysians will go on manufacturing babies in vitro for quite a while yet—like Valans manufacture servos.”

  “Leresha also says she has to ‘report’ Doggie as a fugitive, at the World Gathering.”

  He tensed again. “Then the Guard will hear. What will they think?”

  “I don’t know.” Raincloud felt uneasy. “There aren’t many official fugitives. There’s that doctor, the one who assisted a suicide centuries ago. He’s still alive out on a raft somewhere. There are two others. To add a fourth will make the Guard look bad. A trainsweep…”

  “Kal says that ‘independent’ servos may be dangerous,” Blackbear said. “You’ve got to tell Verid; we should have, sooner. The worst she can do is send us home.”

  “Or to the Palace of Rest,” Raincloud agreed with a smile. “The things that worry us nowadays. At least we have no volcanoes! Enough of that. The goddess is hungry, dear.”

  Blackbear’s hand stroked again, a firmer touch. She leaned into his touch, joining his rhythm. She no longer felt safe taking him inside, yet her expanding tissues demanded greater delights. Her hand found the mushroom, pulsing insistently. Her fingers encircled it, pressing down, planting it in the dark volcanic soil. Blackbear’s tongue found her below, his locks of hair flowing across her legs. Her lips parted. She thought with secret abandon, the god of love must be a man and I will worship him always.

  Chapter 9

  THE NEXT DAY RAINCLOUD SUMMONED HER NERVE TO tell Verid about their “fugitive.”

  At first the Sub-Subguardian seemed puzzled. “A trainsweep? A fugitive?” Sitting in her wood-paneled office, Verid listened politely, leaning forward slightly. “Most trainsweeps are servos.”

  Raincloud blinked, then realized the confusion. “This trainsweep is a servo,” she explained. “That’s why Public Safety came after her. But she never gave us any reason to fear.”

  Then Verid sat up, rigid. The color drained from her deep olive complexion, almost, Raincloud thought, like a Sharer about to enter whitetrance. But Verid collected herself, still breathing heavily. “A servo…the Sharers took one, as a fugitive?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Raincloud in a low voice.

  “What do you think would happen if all our servos got the idea they could be fugitives?”

  The medics, the “house,” the floor sweepers—she could not imagine.

  Abruptly Verid rose and paced across her floor. “Who else knows of this?”

  “Only the family. Also Draeg…” Raincloud had never seen Verid so unsettled.

  “You must go to Kshiri-el this afternoon and get that trainsweep back.”

  “But Public Safety will destroy her.”

  “She’s a security risk.”

  Raincloud’s blood raced. “You can’t. You’ll violate the treaty.”

  Verid turned away, wiping her face with her hand. “You’re right, I’m not thinking clearly. I’ll handle Public Safety.” She paused. “You’ll have to keep the trainsweep; anything else might be construed as incarceration. What a mess.”

  “She’s no trouble to us,” Raincloud assured her.

  “No one else must hear of this.”

  “I understand.”

  “No one else knows…” Verid looked around her office. “Except this room,” she added quietly. “I’ll cleanse its memory as soon as you’ve gone.”

  WHEN DOGGIE CAME HOME, IT WAS BETTER THAN ANY birthday present for Sunflower. The trainsweep extended her forelegs upward as if trying to hug the little boy, and she followed incessantly at his heels. The boy squealed and giggled, and he drew the trainsweep into all sorts of games. He tossed his stuffed snake across the room, and Doggie brought it right back; a new game, one she had never played before. Doggie also made new squeaking and popping noises, louder and more frequent than Blackbear remembered.

  Hawktalon listened closely. “She’s saying, ‘Time for a recharge. Then let’s play.’”

  “Really,” said Blackbear. “Please get your homework done.” Her correspondence school had sent her several chapters of Bronze Skyan history.

  “You don’t believe me,” Hawktalon accused. “I’ll prove it to you. I’ll bring home my translation machine.” Her eyes widened. “Maybe Doggie can help me add to its vocabulary.”

  “That’s very interesting. Do your homework now, please; it’s nearly bedtime.”

  Sunflower was winding down. He drooped himself next to the trainsweep, thumb in mouth, and started to crayon a stick figure on its sun-bleached carapace.

  Hawktalon made a face at her father. “Did you hear, all the worlds are saying ‘yes’ to the children’s exchange? Even Urulan. I’m going to run away to Urulan, that’s what. Then you’ll see. I’ll never have to do homework again.”

  “Homework now” Blackbear said sharply. “Or Doggie gets locked up in the shrine of the Goddess.”

  “No-oo,” wailed the children together. But the effect was immediate. Sunflower tip-toed off to his bedroom to get undressed, while Hawktalon went to sharpen her pencil.

  IN ORDER TO CONVERT ELYSIAN CHROMOSOMES FOR meiosis, three billion bases of DNA had to be read and millions of chemical signals added or removed. Onyx had a machine that would read the DNA and process it. “It is a factory full of molecular nanoservos,” she explained. “Sort of like an ant colony.”

  Blackbear eyed the DNA processor, a box as long as his arm. What if those molecular servos could “wake up,” too? Unlikely, he thought; but still, he resolved to treat the “ants” with care.

  Within the processor was a microscopic tunnel of nanoplast to contain a single double-helical chromosome. The nanoservos were synthetic proteins which attached to the chromosome and drew it into the tunnel. Each protein contained a “controlling arm” which probed the DNA structure, one base at a time, reading the four different base types of “letters” of the DNA alphabet. This information was relayed through the side of the tunnel, into the central brain of the processor.

  When certain sequences were detected, the processor would send a second kind of nanoservo to attach a chemical tag, such as a methyl group, to the DNA sequence. These tags were like on-off switches; during embryonic development, signal proteins would bind to the modified DNA sequence and turn on synthesis of the product of a gene. These genes governed development—and their imperfections caused aging.

  “How fast does it go?” Blackbear wondered.

  Onyx calculated, snapping her fingerwebs against the stone beads on her neck. “We might manage a hundred base pairs per second.”

  Mentally Blackbear worked it out. “We’d take a year to process a genome of three billion.”

  “Two years,” Tulle corrected quietly. “The egg and sperm each contribute one parental genome.”

  “Can it be speeded up?” Blackbear asked.

  Onyx shook her head. “Too rapid processing results in tagging errors; or worse yet, actual mutations in the sequence itself.”

  “Must the nanoservos read every bit of sequence?” asked Blackbear. “Nine-tenths of human DNA is nonfunctional. The nanoservos could be trained to skip over those stretches.”

  Tulle thought a moment. “Too risky; the nanoservo might lose its place and skip over an essential gene. In any case, don’t forget to add the time for proofreading.”

  “Another six months,” guessed Onyx. “So you keep the machine going for two and a half years—”

 
; “And hope it doesn’t break down,” put in Tulle.

  “But still, Blackbear’s idea might work, if we work out the details. Look—let’s contract with a Valan servo firm,” Onyx exclaimed. “As soon as they see money in it, they’ll crank the synthesis up tenfold.”

  “That’s an idea,” said Tulle. “The development cost would restrict the process to wealthier citizens for just the first couple of decades; then it would be generally accessible.”

  Despite himself Blackbear laughed. “Human reproduction—it sounds so odd, put that way. In Elysium, you manufacture people, almost like servos.”

  “Exactly.” Onyx nudged Blackbear’s arm. “You know what your good friend will think of it.”

  Blackbear reddened, for word had got around that he spoke with Kal now and then.

  “Citizen Onyx,” called the voice of the laboratory. “Your culture vessel number oh-three-two is ready for processing.”

  Onyx left to continue her experiment.

  Tulle raised a hand. “While I have a moment, Blackbear, let’s talk.” She drew him into the modeling lab, where Lorl was watching the neural tube develop in a simulation of a mutant embryo. Lorl had continued her project testing neural mutants in the simbrid embryo; she had not switched over to the genome project. Tulle leaned forward upon the counter, next to the culture bulbs, while her capuchin frisked at Blackbear’s feet, sniffing at the embroidered border. “Blackbear, you’ve certainly made your mark here, for all of six months. Are you feeling good about it?”

  “Yes, of course.” Blackbear looked past her. Above the holostage hovered the developing backbone of an outsized embryo, the neural folds just pinching in. Lorl frowned at it, taking notes.

  “Is your ‘family’ well? I keep forgetting; you’ll have another little shonling soon, just like my gorilla family. You must be quite distracted.”

  Actually, he felt guilty for not feeling more. His first child he had experienced so intensely, every waking moment and even in his dreams. This one, the third, came to him when he thought of it; but in the meantime, there were Hawktalon and Sunflower crowding his attention, besides all the Elysian distractions. Whereas Falcon Soaring…“A new baby is always wonderful,” he said. “I feel bad for those who can’t have one.”

  “You feel sorry for us?” Tulle asked with a smile.

  “No, no—I mean, yes, that too,” he said with some confusion. “I meant Raincloud’s cousin, who can’t have one of her own.”

  “Forgive my curiosity, but why can’t she have a child?”

  “She had surgical complications, and her reproductive organs had to be removed.”

  “Really? How extraordinary.”

  Blackbear wished he had not brought it up. Tulle would think, how backward these foreigners were, to have to remove vital organs.

  “Well,” said Tulle, “she could still donate white cells and grow a child in vitro. Wealthy Valans have it done all the time.”

  Blackbear shifted his feet. “We’re not exactly wealthy.” It embarrassed him to say this. In the Caldera Hills, the Windclan was the wealthiest family for several towns. They had sent Raincloud to the university, and himself as well; an unusual extravagance, to send a consort, but worth it to gain a competent doctor.

  Tulle stared a moment. Then she shrugged. “Have her send us a blood sample. Her mate, too, of course. The shon will do it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Grow the child, of course. Without longevity treatment, it’s a simple procedure.”

  “But how will we…”

  “The shon owes me a couple of favors. It’s not a big deal; they make enough profit off the Valans.”

  Blackbear’s heart pounded. How could the Windclan refuse? All they had to do was send a blood sample.

  HAWKTALON CAME HOME FROM THE SHON IN A GOOD mood, for the generen had let her take home her translation duck.

  “Quack, quack,” said Sunflower when he saw the machine.

  Hawktalon was so excited she ignored her younger brother. “Doggie?” She held the duck-shaped object close to the trainsweep, who had resumed the previous routine of following Blackbear and Sunflower on their daily travels.

  Doggie squeaked. The duck said, “What is that unidentified object?”

  Hawktalon jumped up in the air. “Hooray!” She turned a cartwheel, a trick the shonlings in their jumpsuits were fond of. “It works, it really does. Now we’ll know everything Doggie’s saying to us.”

  As it turned out, most of Doggie’s vocalizations produced mere static from the translator. The vocabulary from the Valan researchers appeared to be quite limited.

  “Well,” said Hawktalon, as they reentered the house, “we’ll just have to get Doggie to teach us. Doggie—” She grabbed a chair. “What do you call this, Doggie? Chair—what ‘squeak’?”

  Doggie made a noise.

  “Chair,” repeated the girl. “Hear that, little duckie?”

  After two tries, the duckie repeated “chair” in response to Doggie’s vocalization.

  When Raincloud came home, Blackbear immediately told her about Tulle’s offer to grow Falcon Soaring’s child in the shon.

  “Fantastic,” she told him. “I’ll arrange a call to Mother right away.” She added more thoughtfully, “It will take some explaining. Nightstorm might be better.”

  AT THE LABORATORY BLACKBEAR COMPLAINED TO Draeg, “You’ve been missing practice.” Actually he missed Draeg, who had not been around much of late.

  “Complaints, complaints,” muttered Draeg morosely. “I think I’ve about had enough of this lab.” He stalked out.

  Onyx watched him go. “Easy, Blackbear. He’s having a rough time. Something’s up with his family back home.”

  “Quiet, please,” said Tulle, who was watching a logathlon on the holostage. “It’s not every day that Alin gets to grill Subguardian Flors.”

  Flors was Verid’s boss, the Subguardian. He was just finishing a complicated response to Alin’s question about the L’liite debt crisis, whose settlement the Subguardian had just approved.

  “So,” rejoined Alin, “now that Bank Helicon has rescheduled the L’liite loans over the next hundred years, accepting a loss that will amount to several trillion credits, borne ultimately by the citizens of Elysium, you have restored the L’liite credit rating? They promise, in return, to keep their refugees off our ocean—just how will that promise be kept?”

  “You distort what I said,” Flors told the logen, shifting in his chair. The nanoplast obligingly molded to his new position. “You neglect the profound importance of L’li as a trading partner—”

  Blackbear felt deep disquiet. He turned to leave, thinking of Draeg and his family.

  Chapter 10

  AT HYEN’S STAFF MEETING THE HELICONIANS FLITTED upward as always, but Verid barely noticed. She was tired of reporters asking if she still supported the Prime Guardian, despite the growing scandal. Meanwhile Flors had won acclaim for his settlement with the L’liites, despite his embarrassing performance in Alin’s logathlon. Now, he was triumphantly summing up the final points for Hyen.

  Why, Verid wondered, had the L’liites settled on such terms? Decrepit ships of emigrants with their last bit of fuel had limped off L’li for decades; why would L’li agree to stop them now?

  Hyen was nodding to Flors. “With any luck, we’ve heard the last of L’liite loan scares.” The grace period would last into the term of Hyen’s successor. “I’d say that about wraps it up, Flors.”

  Verid looked up at the rustling leaves, full of chewing caterpillars. “What did you give them, Flors?” She spoke without looking at him. “What did you promise?”

  “Read the settlement,” he replied in a condescending tone. “You have to be tough with foreigners.”

  Since Verid did not reply, Flors moved on. “Next item: We’ve let the Urulites make fools of us again.” The word “we” had a particular emphasis, “Verid will explain.”

  Verid sighed. “As you know, Guardian, the Ur
ulites have actually accepted the Helishon’s invitation for a visiting children’s exchange. They even called Foreign Affairs for visas.”

  “The invitation was never approved,” Flors told Hyen, his voice raised. “How could this have slipped out?”

  Flors did not know that the invitation had been Hyen’s idea in the first place. Why did Hyen have to put his staff through such a charade?

  “It was not a high level concern,” Verid murmured. “A matter for shonlings after all.”

  “A matter for shonlings? Dealing with the most bloodthirsty world in the Fold?” Flors shook his head. “This represents a serious lapse in judgment.”

  Hyen shrugged. “We can still refuse permission, or set impossible conditions. Our shonlings’ safety would have to be guaranteed, after all.”

  Flors looked at him incredulously. “You’d actually let our children go? It’s madness. I’d resign.”

  If only he would, Verid thought. Why had Hyen kept him on so long? But she knew why: Flors was no threat to Hyen. Hyen always kept his more able assistants at arm’s length.

  “Of course we can’t send our children,” Verid said. “Not as our relations stand—that is, nonexistent.” She paused, then added casually, “Who contacted you, about the visas?” It must have been Zheron, she thought hopefully. Who else would have the nerve?

  Flors waved his hand impatiently. “One Urulite or another, they’re pirates all the same. You forget the Valan cruiser they blasted. They never even acknowledged responsibility.”

  “Zheron did acknowledge it,” Verid insisted. “It was a mistake, a tragic one.”

  “So he told you, in private. Did they pay reparations?”