“A Sleepless child?” Leisha asked, her blood quickening. It still happened, sometimes: an illegal genemod, a confused child learning slowly over years that he was different, that the scooter races and holovids and brainie parties somehow weren’t enough for him as they were for his friends. Then there would be the chance learning of the Susan Melling Foundation, usually from a kind donkey, and the scary, determined journey in search of his own kind even before he knew what it meant to belong to his own kind. Taking these Sleepless children or teenagers or sometimes even adults inside the compound, helping them to become what they were, had been Leisha’s sweetest pleasure during her two and a half decades in the isolated desert.
But Stella said, “No. Not a Sleepless. He’s about ten years old, a dirty kid yelling his head off that he has to see you and nobody else. I sent Eric out to tell him you had open reception tomorrow, but he socked Eric in the eye and said he couldn’t wait.”
“Did Eric flatten him?” Leisha said. Stella’s twelve-year-old son had strength mods. And karate lessons. And a disposition no Sleepless should have.
“No,” Stella said, with pride, “Eric’s growing up. He’s learned not to hit unless there’s a clear physical need for defense.”
Leisha doubted this. Eric Bevington-Watrous troubled her. But all she said was, “Let the boy in. I’ll see him now.”
“Leisha! Tokyo is on the comlink this very minute!”
“Tell them I’ll call back. Humor me, Stella—it’s my birthday. I’m old.”
“Alice is old,” Stella said, altering the mood instantly. After a moment she said, “I’m sorry.”
“Let the kid in. At least it will stop that yelling. What did you say his name was?”
“Drew Arlen,” Stella said.
In orbit over the Pacific Ocean, the Sanctuary Council broke into spontaneous applause.
Fourteen men and women sat around the polished metal table shaped like a stylized double helix in the Council dome. A plastiglass window three feet above the floor ran around the entire dome, occasionally crossed with thin metal support struts. The dome itself sat as close as possible to one end of the cylindrical orbital, so the view from the conference room, which neatly occupied half the Council dome, was appealingly varied. To the “north” stretched agricultural fields, dotted with domes, curving gently upward until lost in the hazy sky. To the “south” was space, uncompromising in the relatively thin layer of air that lay between the Council dome and the plastiglass end of the orbital cylinder. To the north, a warm and sunny “day” as sunlight streamed into the orbital through the long unopaqued window sections; to the south, endless night, filled variously with stars or an oppressively huge Earth. The uneven curvature of the conference table and the chairs bolted to the floor meant that six Council members faced stars, eight faced sun.
Jennifer Sharifi, permanent Council leader, always faced north, toward the sun.
She said, pleasure sparkling in her dark eyes, “All the brain scans, fluid analyses, spinal cartography results, and of course DNA analyses indicate nothing but success. Doctors Toliveri and Clement are to be warmly congratulated. And so, of course, are Ricky and Hermione.” She smiled warmly at her son and daughter-in-law. Ricky smiled back; Hermione ducked her head and a spasm crossed her extravagantly beautiful face. About half of Sanctuary’s families no longer altered genes, content with the intellectual and psychological benefits of Sleeplessness and wanting to preserve family resemblances. Hermione, violet-eyed and sleek-limbed, belonged to the other half.
Councilor Victor Lin said eagerly, “Can’t we see the baby? Certainly the environment has to be sterile enough.” Several people laughed.
“Yes, please,” Councilor Lucy Ames said, and blushed. She was only twenty-one, born on the orbital, and still a little overwhelmed that her name had come up for a Council term in the citizen lottery. Jennifer smiled at her.
“Yes, of course. We can all see the baby. But I want to repeat what you have been told before: This round of genetic alteration has gone far beyond anything that any of us are privileged to enjoy. If we wish to keep our advantage over the Sleepers on Earth, we must explore every avenue of superiority open to us. But there are sometimes minor, unavoidable prices to pay as we move forward.”
This speech sobered everyone. The eight councilors with lottery terms, those not of the Sharifi family that controlled 51 percent of Sanctuary financially and hence 51 percent of Council votes, glanced at each other. The six permanent councilors—Jennifer, Ricky, Hermione, Najla, Najla’s husband Lars Johnson and Jennifer’s husband Will Sandaleros—went on smiling determinedly. Except for Hermione.
“Bring in the baby,” Jennifer said to her. Hermione left. Ricky reached out a tentative hand as his wife passed, but didn’t touch her. He drew his hand back and stared out the dome window. Nobody spoke until Hermione returned with a wrapped bundle.
“This,” Jennifer said, “is Miranda Serena Sharifi. Our future.”
Hermione put the baby on the conference table and unwrapped its yellow blanket. Miranda was ten weeks old. Her skin was pale, without rosiness, and her hair was a thick mat of black. She gazed around the conference table from bright, very dark eyes. The eyes bulged in their sockets and darted constantly, unable to remain still. The strong, tiny body twitched ceaselessly. The minute fists opened and closed so fast it was hard to count her fingers. The baby radiated a manic vitality, an overwrought tension so intense it seemed her gaze would bore a zigzag hole in the dome wall.
Young Councilor Ames put her fist to her mouth.
“At first glance,” Jennifer said in her composed voice, “you might think that our Miranda’s symptoms look like certain nervous-system disorders the unaltered beggars are prey to. Or perhaps symptoms of para-amphetamines. But this is something very different. Miri’s brain is operating at three or four times the speed of ours, with superbly enhanced mnemonic capacities and equally enhanced concentration. There is no loss of nerve-tissue control, although there is some minor loss of motor control as a side effect. Miri’s genemods include high intelligence, but what the changes to her nervous system will do is give her ways to use that intelligence that we cannot now predict. This genemod is the best way around the well-known phenomenon of intellectual regression to the mean, in which superior parents have children of only normal intelligence, providing a lesser platform from which new genemods can launch.”
A few people around the table nodded at this lecture; a few more, familiar with the lesser accomplishments of Najla and Ricky compared to Jennifer herself, looked down at the table. Councilor Ames continued to stare at the twitching infant, her eyes wide and her hand to her mouth.
“Miranda is the first,” Jennifer said. “But not the last. We in Sanctuary represent the best minds of the United States. It is our obligation to keep that advantage. For all our sakes.”
Councilor Lin said quietly, “Our usual Sleepless, genemod babies are already doing that.”
“Yes,” Jennifer said, smiling brilliantly, “but at any time the beggars on Earth could decide to reverse their shortsighted policy and begin to do that again themselves. We need more. We need everything we can create for ourselves from the genetic technology we dare to use to its fullest and they do not—mind, technology, defense—”
Will Sandaleros put his hand lightly on her arm.
For a second fury blazed in Jennifer’s eyes. Then it was gone, and she smiled at Will, who gazed at her tenderly. Jennifer laughed. “Was I orating again? I’m sorry. I know you all understand the Sanctuary philosophy as well as I do.”