Birthright

by Mike Resnick

  Rojers walked desolately out of the incubation room, down the long, well-lit corridor, past his own office, and stopped before Herban's door. He looked briefly at the “Chief of Biochemistry” sign painted on the door in neat gold lettering, grunted again, and walked in. Herban, a small man with medium brown skin, short black hair—what there was left of it—and deep furrows on his forehead, was waiting for him, his feet up on his desk, his hands behind his head. “Well?” said Herban.

  “Can't you tell by looking at me?” asked Rojers wryly. “So you go back to the drawing board,” said Herban. “It's not the end of the universe.” “It's damned near the end of mine,” replied Rojers disgustedly. “Today marks my tenth anniversary here, you know.” Herban nodded. “That means I've averaged 109.8 failures for each and every damned year!”

  “Feeling sorry for yourself?” chuckled Herban.

  “I don't see anything particularly funny about it!” snapped Rojers.

  “No, I don't suppose you would. Yet.”

  “What do you mean, yet?” said Rojers. “I've had it. I'm through. Consider my notice given.” “Given, but not accepted,” said Herban. “Sit down and have a cigar.” “Don't you understand?” said Rojers irritably. “I'm quitting.” “Then consider the cigar a going-away present,” said Herban. “Actually, I'm surprised it took you this long. The first time I decided to quit, I'd done only about three hundred experiments. It's all a matter of self-confidence, I suppose. I knew how good I was, and I figured if I couldn't pull the trick off in three hundred tries, I'd never manage it. It took another thirty years to realize that I'd had three hundred successes. You, if my mathematics don't betray me, have had just two shy of eleven hundred successes, give or take a few. Your jaw's hanging open, boy. Why not fill it with a cigar and we'll have a little talk.” Rojers sat down heavily, staring at his mentor. Without thinking, he bit off the tip of his cigar and lit it up. “Ah, but I do like a good smoke,” said Herban, taking a deep puff and uttering a sigh that was as close to ecstasy as he ever got. “I do indeed. You destroyed the body, I presume?” Rojers nodded.

  Herban shrugged. “Just as well, I suppose. No sense letting it grow up or we'd all be out of work around here.”

  “I don't understand,” said Rojers slowly. “I mean, the thing was a freak, just like all the rest. Minimal intelligence, low reaction to stimuli, legs quite stunted. What exactly are you trying to tell me?” “The truth. With a capital T, not the small t they use around here. It took me more than half a lifetime to stumble upon it, probably because it's so bloody simple. And, of course, all of my predecessors figured it out as well, and kept their mouths shut for the same reason I do. But you're the brightest lad around here, even though you're only in your thirties, and since I plan on retiring in the next few years and blowing my pension on fat cigars and fatter women, it seems only logical that you'll be taking my place—if you decide to withdraw your resignation, that is. Which is why we're having this little talk. No reason to let you stumble around in the dark for years the way I did.” “I assume,” said Rojers coldly, “that there is some part of the Project that I fail to understand.” "Some part!"Herban laughed. “Why, boy, you don't understand the whole damned thing! Now, don't

  give me a sour expression like that. You're in good company. Nobody else in the galaxy does either, except me. And even though I'm a goddamn genius, I took almost thirty years to figure it out myself. I often marvel that it didn't dawn on me after the third or fourth experiment.” He took a deep drag on his cigar, opened his mouth slightly, and allowed the smoke to trickle out at its own speed. “But hell, I was young and idealistic and all that sort of nonsense. I suppose I couldn't be blamed for believing in the Project any more than you can.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that the Project is a fraud?” demanded Rojers, a sense of moral outrage

  beginning to creep across his mind.

  “Well, yes and no,” said Herban. “Yes and no.” “Just what is that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly what I said,” said Herban. “Let's see if we can't get you to use a little of that brain of yours. After all, if you're going to become the next Chief Biochemist of the Oligarchy and points north, nobody should have to spoon-feed conclusions to you. Tell me what you think the Project is all about.” “Every schoolboy knows what it's all about,” said Rojers irritably. “What I'm trying to figure out is what you're driving at.”

  “Bear with me for a little while.” The older man grinned, relighting the cigar. “And tell me about the Project.”

  “I feel like an idiot,” said Rojers. “Okay. The Project is attempting to hasten the course of evolution by artificially developingHomo superior." “A fair enough description. And, in that, the Project is absolutely legitimate. Well, ‘legitimate’ is a misleading word; let me say, rather, that in that respect the Project is sincere. Its motives are of the purest nature, and its virtue—if not its efficacy—is beyond question.” “Then I still don't understand what you mean.” “Well, let's begin at the beginning, shall we, boy?” said Herban. “Do you know when the Project began?”

  “Not exactly. About four hundred years ago,” said Rojers. “Try fourthousand. ” Herban grinned. “You'll be much closer to the truth. It began, secretly to be sure, in the waning days of the Republic. Originally, only four men worked on it, and the number always remained under a dozen until about four centuries ago—388 years, to be exact—when the Oligarchy decided to make it public because of political expediency.” “Four thousand?'’ mused Rojers. “But why was it kept secret?” “For reasons of utmost necessity,” said Herban. “You see, originally the idea was to create a true race ofHomo superior, a race that would supersede Man. Well, not really supersede him, since no one was all that anxious to bring about our own extinction; but to, shall we say, represent Man among the myriad worlds, to take and conquer huge new domains for us, and then to move on while we took over the fruits of their labor. Nifty idea, that. They must have dreamed of making a race of men with the intellect of a Robelian, the physique of a Torqual, the ESPer abilities of a Domarian, and, with all that, total loyalty to humanity.” He shrugged. “Well, the science was young then, so I suppose they can be excused for their dreams. And the need for secrecy was twofold: to avoid alarming good oldHomo sap, and to avoid giving advance warning to the various other races that we were planning to spring our little surprise on. And it stood to reason, naturally, that with limited funds and a minuscule number of trained biochemists, they made so little progress for thirty-six hundred years as to make no difference at all. “Then came the Setts. Everybody knows about them now, but originally it was all hush-hush. After all,

  they were the first race ever to defeat us in anything resembling a major battle. It happened something

  like five centuries ago, and, since it occurred so far out on the Rim, the Oligarchy managed to cover it up for more than a century without much difficulty. Then the news finally got back to Deluros VIII, Sirius V, and some of the other major worlds, and all hell broke loose. The people demanded that the Oligarchy do something. For a decade or so the whole damned government racked its collective brain to come up with an answer before they were overthrown, and then some pigeonholer remembered the Project. Overnight, we were given a staff of two hundred men, which gradually increased to three thousand, and our budget was absolutely astronomical. The science of biochemistry learned more in the next ten years than it had in the past seventy centuries, and the Oligarchy had sold the public on a pipedream: we were going to create a race of supermen that would blast the Setts to kingdom come. Worked out beautifully all the way around. Of course, we found out a little while later that the Setts were terribly vulnerable to measles, and they surrendered without any trouble once we sprayed their home world with about a million tons of the virus. But the people had bought the dream of a super race, and the government found it politically expedient to keep up work on the Project.” “Is that what you meant when you implied it was all a fraud?” asked Ro
jers hotly. “That the Oligarchy really doesn't want to come up withHomo superior ?” “Not at all,” said Herban. “They probablydon't want any supermen knocking about—and, if they thought about it, neither would the populace at large. But no one has tried to hinder us in any way. If God Himself popped out of one of our incubators, there's no way anyone could make us put Him back. Nor,” he added with a chuckle, “could they make Him go back if He decided He didn't want to. But that's not the case. God isn't about to crop up around here. At least not as a direct result of our experiments.” “You keep saying that,” said Rojers, feeling more lost than ever. “Why?” “It should be obvious,” said Herban. He pressed a series of buttons on his desk computer, waited for a moment, then glanced at the readout. “As of this minute, we have made 1,036,753 experiments involving human genes. We have tried to force evolutionary patterns on DNA molecules, we have tried to create out-and-out mutations, we have bombarded genes and chromosomes with preset patterns and at random. We have tried well over three thousand approaches, and hundreds of thousands of variations on these approaches. In the process, we've done a hell of a lot for the science of parthenogenesis, but we haven't come up with our supermen yet. Did it ever occur to you to ask why?” “No more than once an hour or so.”

  “Well, the problem is too simple for a bright young feller like yourself to solve. Now, if you asked some savage descendant of one of the Delphini II colonists, he'd probably tell you right away.” “Since I don't know any aborigines on a first-name basis,” said Rojers, “I'll have to put the question to you. With no comparison intended.”

  “No offense taken.” Herban smiled. “The solution to the problem is simply one of definition, which is doubtless caused by our somewhat more sophisticated background.” “I don't follow you, sir,” said Rojers. “Let's put it this way. Our idea of a racial superman would differ considerably from an aborigine's, wouldn't it? I mean, his ideal would be a man who could kill a large herbivore with his bare hands, survive under extremes of temperature, have the sexual potency to father a whole world, and so forth. Agreed?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Our idea, however, reflects the needs we seem to feel. What qualities, in your opinion, might a superman reasonably be expected to possess?” “First of all, an intellectual capacity far beyond our own. And,” Rojers went on, scratching his head thoughtfully, “a number of ESP qualities: telepathy, telekinesis, and the like. And, as his brain power increased, his physical performance would diminish proportionately, since he'd have less need of his body. But hell, that's basic. We all know that.” “Not quite all of us,” said Herban with a small smile. “Our aborigine would disagree ... always assuming he had the intelligence to follow your argument. Otherwise, he'd probably interrupt you in midsentence and throw you into a handy cooking pot. And the really interesting part of it is that for all his lack of intelligence and sophistication, he'd be right and you'd be wrong.” “You don't sound like you're kidding,” said Rojers dubiously, “and yet it has to be a joke.” “Oh, it's a joke, all right,” said Herban. “But it's on us. You see, Man has evolved mentally as far as he's ever going to. From a standpoint of intellect,Homo sapiens andHomo superior are one and the same. I'll qualify that in a moment, but it's essentially correct as it stands.” Rojers was staring in disbelief, making no move to interrupt with a protest, so Herban took another long puff on his cigar and continued. “What, my bright young man, is the most basic cause of natural evolution?”

  “Environmental need,” said Rojers mechanically. “Correct. Which is the precise reason why we're not about to create a mental superman. Man has never used much more than thirty percent of his potential intellect; as long as the remaining seventy percent is there, waiting to be tapped, there is absolutely no cause for any evolutionary process which would increase our basic intelligence. Ditto for telepathy. Man originally had no need for it, because he had the power of speech. Then, as he became separated from his companions by distances too great for speech to carry, he made use of radio waves, video, radar, sonar, and a dozen other media for carrying his words and images. Why, then, is there any need for telepathy? There isn't. “Telekinesis? Ridiculous. We have machines that can literally destroy stars, that can move planets out of their orbits. What possible need can we have for the development of telekinesis? “Take every single trait of our hypothetical superman, and you'll find that there is absolutely no environmental need for it. Now, as I said before, I'll qualify the statement to this extent: Telepathy and even mild telekinesis can be induced under laboratory conditions, at least on occasion. But to do so we must so totally change the gene pattern and environment of the fetus and child that it is literally cut off from the world: no sensual receptors of any kind. In such cases, the brain will usually come out totally dulled or quite mad. On occasion, the insane brain will draw on some of its reserve potential and develop telepathic traits, but of course the mind is so irrational that any meaningful contact with it or training of it is quite impossible.

  “On the other hand, it's not at all difficult to develop our aborigine's superman, because wecan control the physical environment and tamper with the DNA molecules. We turn them out every day in the incubators. We can create hairy supermen, giant supermen, three-eyed supermen, aquatic supermen, and

  if we worked on it, I've no doubt that we could even create methane-breathing supermen. In fact, we can

  create damned near every type of superman except supremely intelligent ones.” “Then it's a dead end?” asked Rojers.

  “Not at all. You're forgetting our untapped seventy percent. Even before space travel in the ancient past, there were numerous documented laboratory experiments dealing with telepathy, prescience, and many other ESPer abilities and talents. Every human body undoubtedly has the potential to perform just about every feat we ask of our hypothetical and unattainable superman, but we've no way to tap that potential. It's the same problem: You, if the need arose, would have the potential to send out a telepathic cry for help, and possibly even teleport yourself out of danger. However, you'll never do it if you can scream and run or press an alarm button and hop into a spaceship. And even if no means of aid were available to you, you simply have a storehouse of special effects; what you lack—what we all lack—is any rational means of getting the key into the storehouse door. PoorHomo superior!" “Then why the facade of trying to develop supermen?” asked Rojers. “To hide our greater purpose, of course,” said Herban. “Our greater purpose?” repeated Rojers. “You make it sound positively sinister.” “It all depends on your point of view,” said Herban. “I think of it as extremely beneficial. But come along, and you can make up your own mind.” With that, the little man put out his cigar, swung his feet off his desk, arose, and gestured Rojers to follow him out the door. They proceeded farther down the corridor to a horizontally moving elevator, and took it about halfway around the massive biochemical and genetics complex. From there they transferred to a vertical elevator and plunged down at a rapid speed. Rojers had no idea how fast they were going, but estimated that they were at least seven hundred feet below ground level before the elevator showed any sign of slowing up. At least, he decided, whatever was going on here wasn't too well hidden. But then, he continued, why should it be? After all, the Oligarchy was paying for it, and the politics of the Project demanded that everything be aboveboard and open. In fact, the Project had been created and maintained solely because of the demands of the populace.

  The doors opened, and Herban led Rojers past two security checks, and into still another horizontally moving enclosure. There were three more changes of direction, all accompanied by increasingly rigid security inspections, until at last they arrived before a massive lead portal, which slowly slid back before them when Herban inserted his identification card into a small practically invisible wall slot. “This is it,” grunted the Chief of Biochemistry as he walked through the doorway. Rojers looked around and was unimpressed. It didn't seem all that different from the portion of the co
mplex he was familiar with: corridors going every which way, numerous doors with signs indicating the departments and subdepartments contained within, and what seemed to be a fair-sized auditorium at the far end of the largest corridor. An occasional technician in a lab smock walked out of one door into another, and once Rojers thought he saw a woman scurrying down a corridor in a lead body suit. By and large, however, there didn't seem to be any of the frantic hustle and bustle and frenzied activity that marked the huge incubator room and its surroundings.

  Still, there were a couple of oddities. Like the woman in the lead suit, and the fact that two of the doors

  he passed as he followed Herban seemed to be made of lead, while the others covered a whole range of plastics.

  They came to a corridor marked MAXIMUM SECURITY and turned down it. Herban nodded to a couple of technicians who were speaking in low tones outside one of the doors, then stopped at a large, unmarked panel. Another insertion of his identification card was followed by another sliding of the barrier, and the two men walked into what gave every indication of being an extremely sophisticated laboratory, though it was filled with equipment that was, for the most part, totally unfamiliar to Rojers. There were far fewer pieces of apparatus for working on genetic structures, but considerably more devices which seemed, on the surface at least, to bear some resemblance to encephalographic and cardiographic machines. Unlike the sterile laboratory atmosphere Rojers had become used to working in during the greater portion of his adult life, this place seemed built for comfort as much as efficiency. All around him were padded chairs, ashtrays (though that could simply be an offshoot of Herban's assumption that everyone—buteveryone— should smoke cigars), food-dispensing machines, books and tapes of popular fiction, and the facilities for bathing the room in music, light images, or both. “Have you any idea where you are?” asked Herban pleasantly, seating himself by an ashtray. “No,” said Rojers. “Though I must admit I've often thought your bedroom would bear a resemblance to this place.”