Blue Champagne

by John Varley

  But Cleo liked it. Oh, not forever and ever: as an interesting change. It gave her a feeling of freedom to be that much in control of her body, to be able to decide how large she wished her breasts to be.

  Did it have anything to do with changing? She really didn't think so. She didn't feel the least bit like a man.

  And what was a breast, anyway? It was anything from a nipple sitting flush with the rib cage to a mammoth hunk of fat and milk gland. Cleo realized Jules was suffering from the more-is-better syndrome, thinking of Cleo's action as the removal of her breasts, as if they had to be large to exist at all. What she had actually done was reduce their size.

  No more was said at the table, but Cleo knew it was for the children's sake. As soon as they got into bed, she could feel the tension again.

  "I can't understand why you did it now. What about Feather?"

  "What about her?"

  "Well, do you expect me to nurse her?"

  Cleo finally got angry. "Damn it, that's exactly what I expect you to do. Don't tell me you don't know what I'm talking about. You think it's all fun and games, having to carry a child around all day because she needs the milk in your breasts?"

  "You never complained before."

  "I..." She stopped. He was right, of course. It amazed even Cleo that this had all come up so suddenly, but here it was, and she had to deal with it. They had to deal with it.

  "That's because it isn't an awful thing. It's great to nourish another human being at your breast. I loved every minute of it with Lilli. Sometimes it was a headache, having her there all the time, but it was worth it. The same with Paul." She sighed. "The same with Feather, too, most of the time. You hardly think about it."

  "Then why the revolt now? With no warning?"

  "It's not a revolt, honey. Do you see it as that? I just... I'd like you to try it. Take Feather for a few months. Take her to work like I do. Then you'd... you'd see a little of what I go through." She rolled on her side and playfully punched his arm, trying to lighten it in some way. "You might even like it.

  It feels real good."

  He snorted. "I'd feel silly."

  She jumped from the bed and paced toward the living room, then turned, more angry than ever.

  "Silly? Nursing is silly? Breasts are silly? Then why the hell do you wonder why I did what I did?"

  "Being a man is what makes it silly," he retorted. "It doesn't look right. I almost laugh every time I see a man with breasts. The hormones mess up your system, I heard, and—"

  "That's not true! Not anymore. You can lactate—"

  "—and besides, it's my body, as you pointed out. I'll do with it what pleases me."

  She sat on the edge of the bed with her back to him. He reached out and stroked her, but she moved away.

  "All right," she said. "I was just suggesting it. I thought you might like to try it. I'm not going to nurse her. She goes on the bottle from now on."

  "If that's the way it has to be."

  "It is. I want you to start taking Feather to work with you. Since she's going to be a bottle baby, it hardly matters which of us cares for her. I think you owe it to me, since I carried the burden alone with Lilli and Paul."

  "All right."

  She got into bed and pulled the covers up around her, her back to him. She didn't want him to see how close she was to tears.

  But the feeling passed. The tension drained from her, and she felt good. She thought she had won a victory, and it was worth the cost. Jules would not stay angry at her.

  She fell asleep easily, but woke up several times during the night as Jules tossed and turned.

  He did adjust to it. It was impossible for him to say so all at once, but after a week without lovemaking he admitted grudgingly that she looked good. He began to touch her in the mornings and when they kissed after getting home from work. Jules had always admired her slim muscularity, her athlete's arms and legs. The slim chest looked so natural on her, it fit the rest of her so well that he began to wonder what all the fuss had been about.

  One night while they were clearing the dinner dishes, Jules touched her nipples for the first time in a week. He asked her if it felt any different.

  "There is very little feeling anywhere but the nipples," she pointed out, "no matter how big a woman is. You know that."

  "Yeah, I guess I do."

  She knew they would make love that night and determined it would be on her terms.

  She spent a long time in the bathroom, letting him get settled with his book, then came out and took it away. She got on top of him and pressed close, kissing and tickling his nipples with her fingers.

  She was aggressive and insistent. At first he seemed reluctant, but soon he was responding as she pressed her lips hard against his, forcing his head back into the pillow.

  "I love you," he said, and raised his head to kiss her nose. "Are you ready?"

  "I'm ready." He put his arms around her and held her close, then rolled over and hovered above her.

  "Jules. Jules. Stop it." She squirmed onto her side, her legs held firmly together.

  "What's wrong?"

  "I want to be on top tonight."

  "Oh. All right." He turned over again and reclined passively as she repositioned herself. Her heart was pounding. There had been no reason to think he would object—they had made love in any and all positions, but basically the exotic ones were a change of pace from the "natural" one with her on her back. Tonight she had wanted to feel in control.

  "Open your legs, darling," she said, with a smile. He did, but didn't return the smile. She raised herself on her hands and knees and prepared for the tricky insertion.

  "Cleo."

  "What is it? This will take a little effort, but I think I can make it worth your while, so if you'd just—"

  "Cleo, what the hell is the purpose of this?"

  She stopped dead and let her head sag between her shoulders.

  "What's the matter? Are you feeling silly with your feet in the air?"

  "Maybe. Is that what you wanted?"

  "Jules, humiliating you was the farthest thing from my mind."

  "Then what was on your mind? It's not like we've never done it this way before. It's—"

  "Only when you chose to do so. It's always your decision."

  "It's not degrading to be on the bottom."

  "Then why were you feeling silly?"

  He didn't answer, and she wearily lifted herself away from him, sitting on her knees at his feet. She waited, but he didn't seem to want to talk about it.

  "I've never complained about the position," she ventured. "I don't have any complaints about it. It works pretty well." Still he said nothing. "All right. I wanted to see what it looked like from up there.

  I was tired of looking at the ceiling. I was curious."

  "And that's why I felt silly. I never minded you being on top before, have I? But before... well, it's never been in the context of the last couple of weeks. I know what's on your mind."

  "And you feel threatened by it. By the fact that I'm curious about changing, that I want to know what it's like to take charge. You know I can't—and wouldn't if I could—force a change on you."

  "But your curiosity is wrecking our marriage."

  She felt like crying again, but didn't let it show except for a trembling of the lower lip. She didn't want him to try and soothe her; that was all too likely to work, and she would find herself on her back with her legs in the air. She looked down at the bed and nodded slowly, then got up. She went to the mirror and took the brush, began running it through her hair.

  "What are you doing now? Can't we talk about this?"

  "I don't feel much like talking right now." She leaned forward and examined her face as she brushed, then dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a tissue. "I'm going out. I'm still curious."

  He said nothing as she started for the door.

  "I may be a little late."

  The place was called Oophyte. The capital "O" had a
plus sign hanging from it, and an arrow in the upper right side. The sign was built so that the symbols revolved; one moment the plus was inside and the arrow out, the next moment the reverse.

  Cleo moved in a pleasant haze across the crowded dance floor, pausing now and then to draw on her dopestick. The air in the room was thick with lavender smoke, illuminated by flashing blue lights.

  She danced when the mood took her. The music was so loud that she didn't have to think about it; the noise gripped her bones, animated her arms and legs. She glided through a forest of naked skin, feeling the occasional roughness of a paper suit and, rarely, expensive cotton clothing. It was like moving underwater, like wading through molasses.

  She saw him across the floor, and began moving in his direction. He took no notice of her for some time, though she danced right in front of him. Few of the dancers had partners in more than the transitory sense. Some were celebrating life, others were displaying themselves, but all were looking for partners, so eventually he realized she had been there an unusual length of time. He was easily as stoned as she was.

  She told him what she wanted.

  "Sure. Where do you want to go? Your place?"

  She took him down the hall in back and touched her credit bracelet to the lock on one of the doors.

  The room was simple, but clean.

  He looked a lot like her phantom twin in the mirror, she noted with one part of her mind. It was probably why she had chosen him. She embraced him and lowered him gently to the bed.

  "Do you want to exchange names?" he asked. The grin on his face kept getting sillier as she toyed with him.

  "I don't care. Mostly I think I want to use you."

  "Use away. My name's Saffron."

  "I'm Cleopatra. Would you get on your back, please?"

  He did, and they did. It was hot in the little room, but neither of them minded it. It was healthy exertion, the physical sensations were great, and when Cleo was through she had learned nothing.

  She collapsed on top of him. He did not seem surprised when tears began falling on his shoulder.

  "I'm sorry," she said, sitting up and getting ready to leave.

  "Don't go," he said, putting his hand on her shoulder. "Now that you've got that out of your system, maybe we can make love."

  She didn't want to smile, but she had to, then she was crying harder, putting her face to his chest and feeling the warmth of his arms around her and the hair tickling her nose. She realized what she was doing, and tried to pull away.

  "For God's sake, don't be ashamed that you need someone to cry on."

  "It's weak. I... I just didn't want to be weak."

  "We're all weak."

  She gave up struggling and nestled there until the tears stopped. She sniffed, wiped her nose, and faced him.

  "What's it like? Can you tell me?" She was about to explain what she meant, but he seemed to understand.

  "It's like... nothing special."

  "You were born female, weren't you? I mean, I thought I might be able to tell."

  "It's no longer important how I was born. I've been both. It's still me, on the inside. You understand?"

  "I'm not sure I do."

  They were quiet for a long time. Cleo thought of a thousand things to say, questions to ask, but could do nothing.

  "You've been coming to a decision, haven't you?" he said, at last. "Are you any closer after tonight?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "It's not going to solve any problems, you know. It might even create some."

  She pulled away from him and got up. She shook her hair and wished for a comb.

  "Thank you, Cleopatra," he said.

  "Oh. Uh, thank you..." She had forgotten his name. She smiled again to cover her embarrassment, and shut the door behind her.

  "Hello?"

  "Yes. This is Cleopatra King. I had a consultation with one of your staff. I believe it was ten days ago."

  "Yes, Ms. King. I have your file. What can I do for you?"

  She took a deep breath. "I want you to start the clone. I left a tissue sample."

  "Very well, Ms. King. Did you have any instructions concerning the chromosome donor?"

  "Do you need consent?"

  "Not as long as there's a sample in the bank."

  "Use my husband, Jules La Rhin. Security number 4454390."

  "Very good. We'll be in contact with you."

  Cleo hung up the phone and rested her forehead against the cool metal. She should never get this stoned, she realized. What had she done?

  But it was not final. It would be six months before she had to decide if she would ever use the clone.

  Damn Jules. Why did he have to make such a big thing of it?

  Jules did not make a big thing of it when she told him what she had done. He took it quietly and calmly, as if he had been expecting it.

  "You know I won't follow you in this?"

  "I know you feel that way. I'm interested to see if you change your mind."

  "Don't count on it. I want to see if you change yours."

  "I haven't made up my mind. But I'm giving myself the option."

  "All I ask is that you bear in mind what this could do to our relationship. I love you, Cleo. I don't think that will ever change. But if you walk into this house as a man, I don't think I'll be able to see you as the person I've always loved."

  "You could if you were a woman."

  "But I won't be."

  "And I'll be the same person I always was." But would she be? What the hell was wrong? What had Jules ever done that he should deserve this? She made up her mind never to go through with it, and they made love that night and it was very, very good.

  But somehow she never got around to calling the vivarium and telling them to abort the clone. She made the decision not to go through with it a dozen times over the next six months, and never had the clone destroyed.

  Their relationship in bed became uneasy as time passed. At first, it was good. Jules made no objections when she initiated sex, and was willing to do it any way she preferred. Once that was accomplished she no longer cared whether she was on top or underneath. The important thing had been having the option of making love when she wanted to, the way she wanted to.

  "That's what this is all about," she told him one night, in a moment of clarity when everything seemed to make sense except his refusal to see things from her side. "It's the option I want. I'm not unhappy being a female. I don't like the feeling that there's anything I can't be. I want to know how much of me is hormones, how much is genetics, how much is upbringing. I want to know if I feel more secure being aggressive as a man, because I don't most of the time, as a woman. Or do men feel the same insecurities I feel? Would Cleo the man feel free to cry? I don't know any of those things."

  "But you said it yourself. You'll still be the same person."

  They began to drift apart in small ways. A few weeks after her outing to Oophyte she returned home one Sunday afternoon to find him in bed with a woman. It was not like him to do it like that; their custom had been to bring lovers home and introduce them, to keep it friendly and open. Cleo was amused, because she saw it as his way of getting back at her for her trip to the encounter bar.

  So she was the perfect hostess, joining them in bed, which seemed to disconcert Jules. The woman's name was Harriet, and Cleo found herself liking her. She was a changer—something Jules had not known or he certainly would not have chosen her to make Cleo feel bad. Harriet was uncomfortable when she realized why she was there. Cleo managed to put her at ease by making love to her, something that surprised Cleo a little and Jules considerably, since she had never done it before.

  Cleo enjoyed it; she found Harriet's smooth body to be a whole new world. And she felt she had neatly turned the tables on Jules, making him confront once more the idea of his wife in the man's role.

  The worst part was the children. They had discussed the possible impending change with Lilli and Paul.

  Lilli could not
see what all the fuss was about; it was a part of her life, something that was all around her which she took for granted as something she herself would do when she was old enough. But when she began picking up the concern from her father, she drew subtly closer to her mother. Cleo was tremendously relieved. She didn't think she could have held to it in the face of Lilli's displeasure. Lilli was her first born, and though she hated to admit it and did her best not to play favorites, her darling. She had taken a year's leave from her job at appalling expense to the household budget so she could devote all her time to her infant daughter. She often wished she could somehow return to those simpler days, when motherhood had been her whole life.

  Feather, of course, was not consulted. Jules had assumed the responsibility for her nurture without complaint, and seemed to be enjoying it. It was fine with Cleo, though it maddened her that he was so willing about taking over the mothering role without being willing to try it as a female. Cleo loved Feather as much as the other two, but sometimes had trouble recalling why they had decided to have her. She felt she had gotten the procreative impulse out of her system with Paul, and yet there Feather was.

  Paul was the problem.

  Things could get tense when Paul expressed doubts about how he would feel if his mother were to become a man. Jules's face would darken and he might not speak for days. When he did speak, often in the middle of the night when neither of them could sleep, it would be in a verbal explosion that was as close to violence as she had ever seen him.

  It frightened her, because she was by no means sure of herself when it came to Paul. Would it hurt him? Jules spoke of gender identity crises, of the need for stable role models, and finally, in naked honesty, of the fear that his son would grow up to be somehow less than a man.

  Cleo didn't know, but cried herself to sleep over it many nights. They had read articles about it and found that psychologists were divided. Traditionalists made much of the importance of sex roles, while changers felt sex roles were important only to those who were trapped in them; with the breaking of the sexual barrier, the concept of roles vanished.

  The day finally came when the clone was ready. Cleo still did not know what she should do.