by Pam Uphoff
Black Point Clan
Pam Uphoff
Copyright © 2018 Pamela Uphoff
All Rights Reserved
ISBN
978-1-939746-37-5
This is a work of fiction.
All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional.
Any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Excerpt from and upcoming release
About the Author
Other Titles by Pam Uphoff
Chapter One
2 Shawwal 1407 yp
Limbo Colony, Empire of the One
Ajha Clostuone Abadan Black Point resisted the impulse to drop his comm and stomp on it. "For politics? Don't scare me like that. I thought something happened to my mother! What do you mean I have to go home for an Enclave level vote? I don't really care who . . . "
His uncle—and boss, Ajki was the Director of External Relations—talked over his protests.
"Father? Father wants to be the Patriarch of Black Point Clan? That's . . . " Ajha shut his mouth. Political games! What the One Hell is Father up to . . . "I'll be there."
He looked around Limbo. A beautiful broad valley, rolling green hills, fields of brown stubble of their first wheat harvest. The blue of the sky echoed in the broad lake.
Home to almost all of the people who merged with Helaos.
It had started as a halfway camp, to be sure the Oner personality was dominating, to deal with unwanted physical manifestations before the merge victims of the Helios went home. . . They'd realized early that it was going to have to be a permanent home for many.
Because the soldiers were considered untrustworthy, and the women—college students for the most part—were definitely not hot marriage prospects anymore, given possible genetic alterations. Employment uncertain. Not welcomed home, the neighbors rejecting the changes in them, and sometimes families, both parents and spouses, as well.
Mostly Oners, but a few of the Merged were from another Earth, one raided by the Helaos for merge victims, or just for women. They felt at home here, where everyone understood viscerally what had happened.
Some families had joined the merged here, more might come once they'd finished building the basic amenities of a modern civilization here. They'd finally formed a real government, where before they'd just taken orders from him and his team. He'd sent most of his people off to new assignments—well, three had retired here—and Fean was starting Grad School.
"And now I have to leave? One! I hope this is quick. I'd really prefer a proper wrap up. Sit around bored while the civvie government takes over everything." He looked around and spotted the man he needed. "Ebsa? Congratulations. You are about to get some valuable leadership experience . . ."
***
Six months in, Xiat Withione Abadan Black Point was wondering why she'd left Criminal Investigations for Analysis. A couple of years at CI had broadened her experience, but returning to what she was better at had seemed like a good idea.
Until Izzo had been promoted to Subdirector of Analysis.
A strictly professional relationship had suddenly become necessary . . . and difficult.
And now her former lover and current boss was worried about this Patriarchal convention. Too many pre-cogs, too many dreams about it. Nothing clear or definite. "He's starting his move" and "the next one" seemed to be the limit of the hard information. Who was moving on what, and whether the 'what' was the same as the 'next one' was typically clouded and uncertain.
Two years until the insanity of a presidential election, but it could be early maneuvers with that as the goal. Or something entirely unrelated.
The Director of Internal Relations had more than once threatened to just shut down the Precognition and Divination Lab.
Both Director Efge and Subdirector Izzo had spoken to her before her departure.
"Two of the three most powerful men in the War Party are Black Point Clan." The Director was the third, of course, and Marrakesh Clan. "They're using the Patriarchal race as a proxy battle for control of the Party. Beware dirty tricks." His fingers drummed on the table and his eyes were narrowed, thinking of something he wasn't saying.
How to use this to his own political advantage.
"And violence." Subdirector Izzo had smiled ruefully. "Watch out for Bully Boys on each side. And don't enjoy yourself too much beating them up, if the opportunity arises."
Efge had shaken his head. "If you kill any of them, try to make it look like an accident. If they don't know your training and affiliation, all the better. I'd as soon be invisible in this, however much I'd love to see both Arlw and Axti defeated."
Speaking of presidential aspirations. Surely Efge isn't planning to run . . . this time. Popular presidents tend to stay in office for twenty years. Four terms. President Orde will probably not run in 1415. I'll bet that's what Efge's aiming for.
But if either Arlw or Axti run and actually defeat Orde in 1410 . . . Efge could kiss a presidential run goodbye for another twenty years.
"Right. I'll see what I can do." Xiat left Efge's office with Izzo.
And since Izzo was her boss, he hadn't kissed her goodbye.
Dammit.
I should transfer back into Investigations. Or the Presidential Directorate. This professionalism is . . . frustrating.
***
Two corridors and a train ride later, Xiat eyed the "reception committee" at the Black Point Station. Young men and old. Only about half the number she'd been expecting.
About five of them spoke at once, a babble of obscene suggestions. One leering face, unfortunately familiar. Equally familiar, penetrating voice. "Hey, Xiat, need a place to stay?"
"One! Ewmo, what are you doing here begging for sex?
"I'm not begging. I'm offering hospitality."
"He's worthless, take me instead!" She didn't know that one, but he grabbed her arm, and that was something she was not prepared to allow. A simple hip throw dropped him flat on the platform. She snapped her mental shields down a quarter, and power-punched to his upper abdomen. Nothing like a bit of magically enhanced brute force.
Gaping for air, he still reached for the magic. He waved his right hand uselessly. Even at three-quarters shield, she easily bounced his attempt at a simple stun spell. She walked past, stomping the hand that tried for a grab. She kept the contact light, no need to break anything. At least perverts weren't as pervasive as they used to be. If the town hadn't been crowded, the Clan called in for the vote, there probably wouldn't have been a single one on the platform. She kept the stranger in the corner of her eye and saw him stagger to his feet. He headed the other direction. Good.
Ewmo was still following. Bad.
"Hey, Xiat. Haven't seen you since we graduated. Hey, I've got a position in the Commerce and Trade Department now, apartment in Paris."
"Get lost Ewmo. I have my own apartment in Paris
, and no lack of company much higher than you."
"Hey, I stayed in quarantine, kept all my prophets' genes. I could probably get you pregnant, now."
Xiat made a rude gesture. She was not looking forward to this homecoming. Mainly because of idiots like this one. But this was business, not pleasure.
And if Ewmo tried to kiss her, she would kill him. The engineered plague that had removed three pairs of genes from the One had received a very mixed reaction. The genes had affected aggression, especially the identification of the proper targets for aggression.
With their removal, rapes had plummeted.
Scenes like this one on the rail platform had disappeared except in a few high population areas. Not even a magical plague could infect everyone.
But even if some of the effects were welcome, it was still an attack on the One, and struck at the very definition of the One. Which was one reason this election was so important.
If they would just approve the genetic engineering to replace those genes . . . we could have increased rape statistics instead of a war. Or, given our feelings of outrage and vulnerability, both rape and war. One save me!
She towed her luggage down the ramp, and caught the tram up the very aptly named Hill Street.
"I take it you have a place to stay?"
She sighed loudly. Cranked her mental shields almost closed. Aura and sex appeal being close to the same thing, maybe she'd show the absolute minimum polite amount all week long. Save herself a world of trouble. Maybe. "I'm staying at Aunt Kiaj's."
"Oh yeah, Aunt Kiaj's has got her old buddies back, hasn't she? And Poppy and Phoebe are their kids and I'll bet they invited the rest. All the old Cheer Squad back together, eh?"
Ewmo was not actually stupid.
"Yeah. All us girls, back together again." All of us Oner women, with all that implies in magical abilities, long life, excellent health, and miserably low fertility.
"Well, I'll see you around." Ewmo dropped off at Spinnaker Lane.
The tram labored up the steep hill past Jib and then Topgallant, where she dropped off. She pulled her luggage four houses down the street—the lots were large, with lots of privacy afforded by the coastal redwoods growing thickly between homes. There were no fences, just a few enclosed patios.
The houses all had security systems hooked to their computers. She tapped the control on her bracer to turn her implants on. They identified her to the house computer as soon as she turned up the sidewalk toward the building. Women burst from the house. "Xiat! Yay! Now we're all here!" A mixed up chorus from five women. Ten years since she'd seen most of them. Fifty plus years since they'd all palled around. If she hadn't known better she'd have guessed them all still in their early twenties. Bless those artificial genes. She herself had every single one of them, and investigating undercover she'd been known to pass herself off as eighteen.
Judging from the squeals, the other women were going to be acting like they were still eighteen.
Chapter Two
6 Shawwal 1407 yp
Black Point Enclave, West Coast division, North American region
"Relax, Boss, we've got this."
Ajha sighed as Hob drove the ute through the first gate. A dimensional phenomenon that shifted them to a parallel world with a faint twinge of the innards and twist of reality.
This one took them to a desert world, nothing here but a wide arc of gates and a small guard contingent. Paranoia. Aimed the right direction, for a change, even if it would be just a minor speed bump to a serious invasion. The guards might manage to send the alarm and trigger the crash gates to give us a little time.
Gates to the One World, Embassy—the Empty World that was used as a diplomatic meeting place—and three other potential colony worlds, none of them currently being developed.
The bored fellow on duty waved them onward. Ajha was well known to everyone who'd spent any time in the field. Hob looped around and took aim at the gate to Gate City on the One World.
The flat, open, gate field was warm in the late fall sun. Far enough south for beautiful days like this even so late in the season. Familiar territory, home base for . . . Forty-five years? The largest part of the Directorate of External Relations was here in the city, and still a small part of the sprawling metropolis. They fought their way through traffic to the corridor to the west coast.
Another new thing. Instant transport across continents and oceans, on the same world.
The traffic in San Francisco was heavy as well, but the train depot not far.
The coast curved too much for a bullet train, but Ajha liked the slow trip. Spectacular views all along the coast, north to the enclave. A bit over an hour, to relax and unwind from the job—and brace oneself for extended exposure to the family.
Ajha eyed the drunks on the other end of the train car. But today it looks like I get to "enjoy" the family all the way up the coast.
"The King is dead!"
"Long live the King!"
Drunken laughter. "I mean patty ark. Patry . . . arch! Ha! Got it!"
The drunks tried singing, fortunately breaking off into laughter.
Mushy the Lushy and Whipper. Figures. Distant cousins. Thank the One.
The law that required that every descendant of the Prophets bear the letter designation of four of his genetic insertions had landed Wpja an unusually unpronounceable name. Ushy, well. Sometimes nicknames came too easy. Of course, nothing prevented a parent from adding an actual name type of name to the whole collection, but that had fallen out of custom a dozen generations ago. They were also, by law, saddled with a public disclosure of what was usually an indicator of how magically powerful they were, with his Clostuone rating putting him well down rank.
Not a complete set of the genes of the Prophets of the One True God. Which downgraded his social status, despite being one of the rare Clostuones with a whole bunch of the desired genes in his almost complete double set.
His parents had divorced following the disgrace of his birth. Withiones were not supposed to have Clostuone children. If for no other reason than it meant his father was publicly outed as not having double complete sets.
And, of course, they also had their clan and sub-clan designations.
Ajha sighed impatiently. When one entered Government service, one was supposed to drop Clan affiliation from one's name. But everyone knew.
And now this conference. Everyone was going to come. Everyone.
Black Point Clan was one of the smaller of over three thousand clans. But they had a large number of influential government positions. So the death of the Clan Patriarch and the Convention to name a new one was in the news.
Ajha settled back to read all about it.
His own father was one of the potential Patriarchs. Axti Withione. The Ax. Minister of Audits, maker of much sweating and trembling in the halls of government. As Patriarch of Black Point he'd have one of the 3274 votes in the Conclave Concerning The One. Usually a social duty, and a huge tick on the snob scale, this year it would mean something in the Halls of Power.
For the first time in four hundred years they were going to vote on the definition and standards for the One. The seven percent of the population with the gene for power collection. Another ten percent or so "the Halfers" had the other genes, the Prophet's genes, but lacked the essential power Gene. The One Gene.
The Prophets' genes were not unalloyed good. Three of them, in the wrong combination with the normal version of the gene tipped the balance of male sexual aggression. Perhaps ten percent of Oners had the impulse to rape, although many were too honest, too honorable to give into the urge.
At least, that was the situation until four years ago, when an unfortunate decision to revive a covert war with the world known as Comet Fall had resulted in a bit of retaliatory biowarfare. Nano scale von neumanns had been deliberately spread. Nanos that homed in on the three genes and removed them. It hadn't gotten everyone. Just, at latest count, ninety-five percent of them.
Of cou
rse, we can reengineer the genes and put them back in. Why anyone would want to is beyond me, and politics over whether to release the potions that will 'repair' them . . . it could be decades before the fix is approved.
Hence the upcoming Conclave of Clans.
Should the One categories be redefined, as percent possession of 105 rather than 108 pairs of genes? Should the redesignation be retroactive, or just applied to children born post Bio Attack? People had always been able to request retesting. Should they be held to the old or new standards?
What of the few Oners who hadn't been changed? They were mostly against changing the qualifications, and demanding a complete retesting. No doubt they hoped to be left standing on the pinnacle in a much reduced company.
Ajha, to his eternal gratitude, had never had any of the suspect genes. He was old enough to cynically realize that any change to his official designation would change only a few words. But too many people see their self-worth in the label. They're going to fight the conclave—one way or the other—for their own personal benefit. And it all starts here, for the Clan.
His drunken cousins—thankfully several generations removed—were singing now.
The train dropped to the slower tracks and eased to a halt at the platform. Home is the hunter. And all of his cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, and nephews and whatever else and however distant. Family.
He grabbed his bags and followed the crush out the doors. The town was packed, people everywhere.
Grocery store, medical center, a few art galleries, the hardware store, bookstore. There were probably only three thousand of the clan that lived here full time, double that number who, like him, had a room stuffed with their possessions in some relative's home, and where they were, in theory, welcome to sleep when they were in town. Today? Fifty thousand here, easily. Possibly more, if they'd married outsiders and brought them with them. He eyed, and was eyed in turn by everyone on the street.
