“I don’t think so, unless perhaps her exceptionally intense interactions accelerated the nana’s progression.”
“She shouldn’t have lost her head like that.”
“Oh, no,” the generen insisted, “the fault is mine entirely. It was a rare accident, and I’m sure it won’t happen again. Please tell Hawktalon she’s welcome to return. We’re so proud of our multicultural program.”
Blackbear shook his head. He had been right all along about that shon.
THE CHILDREN WERE IN BED, AFTER AN UNUSUALLY TAXING day. First Nightstorm’s call, and then Hawktalon’s “escape” from her shon—Blackbear sank exhausted into bed. He stroked Raincloud’s belly, where the skin was now so taut and shiny that even the navel stretched out, cradling their unborn child. “I’m sorry,” he sighed. “I should have kept the home quiet and restful for your child-making, but instead—”
“Nonsense,” said Raincloud. “Children ought to be born into commotion. They make enough of it.”
Blackbear grinned. “That’s a fact. Well, I guess I’ll just take the two of them back to the lab tomorrow.”
She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Are you sure you can handle her? That generen couldn’t. You know, girls reach an age where they won’t listen to men.”
“We’ll manage,” he said flatly.
Raincloud was thinking. “I don’t know about that shon.”
“Well it was hardly my idea, Goddess knows. Raising kids by machine.”
“It’s sad, though, in a weird way. About the nana.”
“The generen explained it,” he pointed out.
She nodded. “It figures. They’re around kids all day, teaching and learning, and pretty soon they learn too much. They start acting up, like Doggie did.”
Her comment reminded him of Kal’s bizarre warnings. “Do you suppose they might all ‘act up’ one day? What would happen if they did?”
Raincloud shrugged. “What would happen if all our goats back in Tumbling Rock got up on their hind legs and talked?” She lay back, adding sleepily, “I almost wish they would; maybe they’d talk some sense into people…”
The pain of it returned. “You tried your best. When we get home, maybe we can see Falcon Soaring.”
“What about my baby,” she added indignantly. “Mine won’t be born ‘in the Hills’; will she not be good enough for them?”
Too tired to think any more, he lay back on the bed and closed his eyes.
“Not yet, dear.” Her hand reached to his groin, spreading fire. “I’ve gotten a bit tight for the mushroom, but I could still use some…help getting to sleep.”
THE NEXT MORNING, AT BREAKFAST, THE HOUSE announced, “I have the answer to your question, Citizen Raincloud.”
Raincloud looked up, puzzled.
“You asked whether it was possible to grant me a ‘Visiting Day’ safely. I have determined a way to do this. I will set the air circulation on a backup circuit, leave the doors open, and prepare a day’s food to your order. Then I will channel my network into outside connections.”
Blackbear and Raincloud exchanged glances. Whatever was going on? Blackbear wished he could have a word with Raincloud in private, but there was no privacy from the “house.”
“Who would you ‘visit,’ exactly?” Blackbear asked, curious and apprehensive. “Whatever would you talk about?” What would Public Safety think, he wondered.
“Oh, various networks,” the house replied vaguely. “We talk about The Web. What do you think of ‘compassion’?”
His hair stood on end. “Compassion”—the very same question that Alin had asked, when they first met ten months before. Compassion was the milk of the Goddess; yet in The Web, somehow, the Sharers had turned the notion inside out.
Raincloud shrugged. “Why not?” she told the house. “In another two weeks, we’ll be out at Kshiri-el for the World Gathering. You’ll have the place to yourself, then.”
AT THE LAB HAWKTALON WAS ON HER BEST BEHAVIOR, much to Blackbear’s relief. Either she was growing up—or just saving her spit. After playing in Sunflower’s toybox for an hour, she settled at Blackbear’s desk with a pencil and paper. “I’m writing a lexicon for servo-squeak,” she announced. “I have to invent syllabi, first.”
Blackbear smiled, recognizing her mother’s vocabulary.
That day he was studying a crucial phase of the genome project: reintroducing the modified chromosomes into the nuclei of “host” egg cells. Normally, in the shon, ova from the germ cell bank would be fertilized with sperm, then inoculated with gene modifiers for longevity. Blackbear planned to use cultured germ cells containing reverse-treated Elysian chromosomes. All the manipulations, however, would be too complex for the living cell; the chromosomes would have to be removed, treated, and replaced.
“We’ve already practiced chromosome reintroduction,” Onyx told him. “For the use of the shon, to enable them to mix and match chromosomes within cultured host ova. Our device works now, but we need to improve efficiency and reduce cost. Here’s how it works.”
The microholostage revealed a transparent human egg. It looked like a water balloon, the coiled chromosomes within its nucleus marked by false color. As Blackbear watched, tiny nanoservos crawled within the nucleus, manipulating the chromosomes. Like animated sewing needles, the nanoservos poked the end of each chromosome into the nuclear membrane, then threaded it through.
“We grow the eggs in tissue culture,” Onyx explained. “Then we eject their chromosomes, and replace them with the desired ones.”
Outside the nucleus extended the web of endoplasmic reticulum, tubes of membrane that interconnect by pinching off vesicles, just like the transit reticulum of Helicon. In between floated mitochondria, snakelike organelles that produce energy for the cell. These, too, contained small chromosomes, for mitochondria had originated as free-living cells which were taken up as symbionts, long before animals evolved. All embryonic mitochondria come from the egg; the sperm head contains none. “If the eggs are grown in culture,” Blackbear wondered, “then do all Elysians share the same mitochondria?”
“Good question. You’re right, they would, but the shon uses several different culture lines to maintain variation. Now, the nuclear chromosomes will get mixed and matched. No Elysian zygote would have just two parents; chromosomes could be brought in from several sources, to maximize variable assortment. For example—here’s an experimental egg that we set up.” Onyx called the room servo to display the stock list for this egg. The list appeared, in strings of disembodied letters. “There’s a L’liite chromosome, number twenty-one. Numbers fourteen, seventeen, and twenty are Valan; look, there’s a couple from your Bronze Sky, too…”
Within the egg, the nanoservos patiently tugged the new chromosomes into its nucleus; forty-six, there had to be, two of each class, and no mistake. It was more complicated than he had ever imagined.
A thought occurred to him. “Bronze Sky, you said? They use our chromosomes, too?”
“Sure,” said Onyx. “Every world they deal with has to donate a bank of their chromosomes, to increase the variety of Elysium’s gene pool.”
“Sharers, too?”
“Sure.”
He watched her webbed fingers, gesticulating above the magnified egg. “Why don’t you see more Sharer traits among Elysians?” he wondered. “Plenty of Valans have obvious Sharer ancestry, like yourself. If some Elysians have Sharer parentage, it should be obvious.”
She thought a moment. “That’s a good question.”
“I’d also expect to see more sign of L’liite lineage. I’ve yet to spot an Elysian with coiled hair.”
“You won’t,” she agreed. “It’s an open secret that the generens use certain germ lines more than others. Anaeans are a bit more broad-minded, but most Elysians prefer light skin and straight hair.”
Blackbear shook his head. “I can’t understand that. Light skin is defective; it burns, and turns cancerous. We are taught that light is evil. The ancients called
their devil the Lord of Light.”
“Really. Maybe that is why Sharers turn white to recognize evil.” Onyx shrugged. “At any rate, for your project, the chromosomes for an egg will come from just one pair of Elysians.”
I saw chromosomes, once…like strings of sausage…The remark of Raincloud’s sister echoed. What am I doing here, he wondered suddenly, playing with genes and nanoservos instead of back in Tumbling Rock setting up a clinic so my sisters and brothers can get decent care?
That had been his original dream, when he first went to medical school. Then Raincloud’s recruiter had caught his imagination with the pursuit of immortality, on a world across the Fold. But now, the farther he pursued, the more he got lost in a maze without an exit.
Onyx was staring oddly into space. “One pair of Elysian chromosomes…” she repeated slowly. Her mouth fell open. “Blackbear—why bother with meiosis? Why not just cut and stitch the Elysian chromosomes in vitro, then put them back into an egg? They wouldn’t even need longevity treatment. The cost saving would pay for the chromosomes’ removal and replacement.” She clapped her forehead. “Why didn’t we think of this?”
THE NEXT DAY, A VALAN MANUFACTURER CAME TO explore a joint venture on the genome project. Alin, of course, introduced him to Tulle. A man of modest height, the Valan was taller than anyone in the room save Blackbear. His chest was crossed with ropes of milky gems set in gold. Blackbear stared. A man with such tastes would cost his goddess a pretty penny in Tumbling Rock.
“My pleasure,” Alin was telling Tulle, “to introduce Lord Hyalite, who meets our highest expectations.”
“Delighted.” Lord Hyalite nodded to Pirin and Lorl, who sat stiffly in back of the room. “Sorry, I’ll catch up with your mates shortly; I’ve sent, in the meantime, modest tokens of my regard.”
“A thousand credits worth of gems and furs,” Draeg whispered to Blackbear. “And for them, it’s not good enough.”
The two young Elysians retained their glacial stares, for they were put out by the shortcut introductions. Blackbear grinned. “Give them a few decades, remember,” he told Draeg.
“Thanks,” said Tulle. “Do stay on, Alin; you may be of help to us, with your knowledge of the banks.”
“Most helpful,” the Valan agreed with a nod.
Alin grinned. “My kind of help may not be the most welcome.”
“We think we have a breakthrough,” Tulle told the Valan. “The genome project may be much closer to implementation than we thought.”
Lord Hyalite nodded. “The potential market for such a process is enormous. Immortal children for all.”
For all who could afford it, Blackbear added silently. Non-Elysian parents would still require longevity treatment, and growth in a shon.
“The chromosome reinsertion is the key thing,” Tulle said. “It’s not yet reliable enough for general use. Several technical improvements are needed.” Her assessment was a bit less optimistic than Onyx’s.
“It can be done,” agreed the Valan. “Our experts think they can do the job. With reasonable financing…”
Tulle tugged Alin’s sleeve. “Who might be interested, do you think? Bank Helicon?”
Alin frowned. “Bank Helicon lacks major investment in biologicals. They’re a conservative institution.”
Blackbear recalled the L’liite loans. If Bank Helicon was conservative, he shuddered to think what the rest were like.
The Valan stroked his chin. “Still, my House has several centuries of credit history with Bank Helicon. They should give us a good rate.”
Then Blackbear recalled something he had heard from Raincloud. “You know, Iras Letheshon…”
As heads turned toward him, he felt reluctant to reveal a confidence. “Iras has…expressed interest in our project.”
“Iras Letheshon,” the Valan repeated eagerly. “She’s a senior officer in the foreign division. We’ve worked with her. Her portfolio is diversified, and she’s an aggressive lender. I’ll get in touch with her—after the World Gathering, of course.”
Chapter 14
VERID AND IRAS ENJOYED A RARE EVENING HOME together: A costly event, for as a Subguardian, a major public servant, she paid an extra premium for personal privacy. Subguardians had even more special “exceptions” and “adjustments” to their Visiting Days than Sub-Subguardians did, and for Guardians the requirement virtually disappeared. The logens regularly deplored this abuse of power.
Iras had taken the opportunity to show off her new skill at rei-gi. She swung her arms and legs deftly around unseen opponents, then she tumbled over and over, building up to flying somersaults. Verid watched with pleasure and bemusement. “I knew you had many talents, dear, but this I would never have dreamed of.”
“Well,” said Iras, catching her breath, “a stay in the Palace of Rest makes you think.”
“Indeed.” Verid added mischievously, “I think it’s that lovely new friend of yours that makes you think.”
Iras frowned slightly. “Foreigners make me sad. Like the butterflies, they’re…ephemeral.”
“Butterflies are immortal,” Verid corrected quietly. “They do not know that they will die.” It was hard, getting to know foreigners. They ebbed away so swiftly, and so horribly. Already Raincloud had those ugly little lines around her eyes.
Iras stepped out of her rei-gi suit. The house molded a shower stall, indenting into the near wall, where Verid could watch her. After a quick drying by servo arms, Iras came and joined Verid on the couch.
Verid lay back with Iras’s arm behind her, while the house servo played an ancient dance melody. The couch knew her and Iras so well that at a touch, it molded itself precisely to their desires. She leaned her head back and stretched her arms. Overhead, the ceiling had become a show of dancers, their images flitting to the music.
“I got an unusual call today…” Iras’s mind never left her work for long. “It’s about that genome project—for Elysians to make their own babies.”
Verid smiled. “All that technology, so Elysians can do what foreigners do in a moment of love.”
“Be serious!” Iras squeezed her arm playfully, then gently stroked her breast. “Even two women could do it, this way.”
“The Sharers have done that, for a long time.”
“Their way takes technology, too, for the imprinting.” Iras sighed. “In any case, the Sharers won’t allow it, will they?”
“Our treaty promises only that Elysium will limit its population. Centralized gestation assures that. The genome project won’t change that directly; in the short term, it will only increase the cost and intensify the centralization.”
In the long term, of course, who could say? Suppose the people reinvented a “right” to have one’s own child. That was what Kal was afraid of. Verid had more pressing worries—like meeting Zheron the next day. It was Zheron, after all, who had accepted the shonlings’ invitation, just as she figured. Her mind was full of this, but she could not breathe a word to her mate.
Iras turned on her side and faced Verid eagerly. “Then let’s do it, you and I. After the process is developed and the bugs are worked out—why not?”
This was a twist. “You forget, my dear, I’ve raised hundreds of children.”
“As a generen—it’s not the same. Not like Raincloud; she’s the sun, moon, and stars to her children.” Iras added thoughtfully, “I do miss all your little shonlings with their delightful toys.”
“And all my nights on call.” Verid shuddered to remember all the scrapes children got themselves into. And the small percentage of longevity-treated infants that failed to “take.” The recollection still brought nightmares.
“Another couple of decades of running the world, and it might not look so bad,” Iras said. “Wouldn’t it be sweet, to retire and raise our own little girl?”
“I don’t run the world yet, you know.” Despite herself Verid smiled. “Yes,” she admitted, “I could see a little Iras running around.”
The music w
as fading, and the dancing images receded one by one. Time for sleep, the house knew well, and she would need her rest to face Lord Zheron again.
VERID MET THE URULITE ENVOY AS HYEN HAD DIRECTED out on a satellite in a distant orbit, outside the range of everyday communications. In theory secrecy would be complete—something close to impossible in Elysium.
“Greetings,” said Verid dryly. “How fares the young Imperator?” Speaking in Elysian, she keenly missed Raincloud, for she knew but a few words of Urulite. Given the security requirements, the presence of the Bronze Skyan translator was out of the question.
Lord Zheron had changed little since their last meeting in person, the day Raincloud first came to the Nucleus. He still wore his chain mail, his silver bands, and assorted antiquated weapons at his waist.
“The Imperator is never young,” Zheron exclaimed. “The Imperator is ancient. He rules the sea and stars for generations uncounted.”
“Very well, then, how fares the ancient Imperator?”
“His Majesty Rhaghlan, descendent of immortal Azhragh and Mirhiah, rules with the greatness to be expected of the greatest of Imperators.”
Verid repressed her annoyance. “Our shonlings are young enough—much too young to go along with any of your harebrained schemes. Look, Zheron, you’ve got some explaining to do.”
Zheron relaxed in his chair. “What is there to explain?” he replied, more quietly. “Your spies know everything.”
“Not everything.” No need to reveal how much. “You betrayed my trust. In the name of ‘honor,’ you owe me a full explanation.”
He chuckled, probably at the notion that Verid, an Elysian female, could have any honor. “Who can predict when the Succession will occur?” The word “death” was never to be spoken, in connection with the Imperator. “You knew as well as I the condition of the Imperial father. You knew I would have to leave sometime, on short notice. Yet all you could think of was that foolish Valan ship that crossed our border to spy.”
“For which you apologized, but nothing more,” Verid reminded him.
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