The office was a large room near the roofline of a converted Renaissance palazzo down near the Arno; the windows looked away from the river, out to the cathedral with its red-and-white candy-stripe Giotto bell tower and the green mountains beyond. It was cheerfully light, white-painted with a good tapestry on the inner wall, bright patterned tile floors, rugs, modern inlaid Draka-style furniture. There was a smell of river and clean warm air from outside, faint traffic noises, the fainter sound of a group of brooders counting cadence as they went through their exercises.
“The brooder I sent in is satisfactory?” she said.
The doctor kept his eyes steady on hers as she turned back from the window, but could not prevent an inward flinch. You saw suffering in his line of work, but not like that.
“A little underweight, but otherwise fine,” he replied, calling up the report. “The psych report indicates stabilized trauma, surprisin’ recovery. Hmm, prima gravida . . . good pelvic structure, but are you sure a licensed Clinic brooder wouldn’t do?” Yolande shook her head wordlessly.
“The technicians report she’s . . . hm, seems to have been under very severe stress. Good recovery, as I said, no biological agent; still, I’d swear she’s been sufferin’ from somethin’.”
“She has,” Yolande said, with a flat smile.
“What?”
“Me.”
The doctor opened his mouth, shut it again with a shrug. It was the owner’s business, after all. “Well,” he said after another consultation with the screen. “We adjusted her hormone level, so she’s ready fo’ seeding anytime. Now, as to the clone.” He paused delicately.
Yolande lit a cigarette, disregarding his frown. The new gene-engineered varieties of tobacco had virtually no carcinogens or lung contaminants, and the soothing was worth the slight risk.
“I’d think it was simple enough,” she said. The glassy feeling was back, a detachment deeper than any she had ever achieved in meditation. “My lover was killed in India. I want a clone-child, with this wench as brooder.”
“Tetrarch Ingolfsson . . . you do understand, a clone is not a reproduction? All the same genes, yes, but—”
“Personality is an interaction of genetics an’ environment, yes, I am familiar with the facts, Doctor.” She sank into a chair. It was odd, how the same physical sensation could carry such different meanings. The smooth competence of her own body: a year ago, it had been a delight. Now . . . just machinery, that you would be annoyed with if it did not function according to spec. “I realize that I’m not getting Myfwany back.” Something surged beneath the glass, something huge and dark that would shatter her if she let it. Breathe. Breathe. Calm.
The medico steepled his fingers. “Then there’s the matter of the Eugenics Code.”
She stubbed out the cigarette and lit another. “I’m askin’ fo’ a clone, Doctor. Not a superbeing.”
“Yes, yes . . . are you aware of the advances we’ve made in biocontrol in the last decade?”
Yolande shrugged. “I’ve seen ghouloons,” she said. “Bought a modified cat awhiles ago.”
He smiled with professional warmth. “If you’ll examine that-there screen by you chair, Citizen.” It lit. “Now, we’ve had the whole human genome fo’ some time now, identified the keyin’ and activation sequences.” His face lit with a more genuine warmth, the passion of a man in love with his work. “Naturally, we’re bein’ cautious. The mistakes they made with that ghouloon project, befo’ they got it right! We’re certainly not talkin’ about introducing transgenetic material or even many modified genes. Or makin’ a standard product.”
Double-helix figures came to three-dimensional life on the screen. “You see, that’s chimp DNA on the left, human on the right. Ninety-eight percent identical, or better! So a few changes can do a great deal, a great deal indeed.” Seriously: “And those changes are bein’ . . . strongly encouraged. Not least, think of how handicapped a child without them would be!”
“Tell me,” Yolande said, leaning forward, feeling a stirring of unwilling interest beneath the irritation.
“Well. What we do is run analysis against the suggested norm, an’ modify the original as needed. Saves the genetic diversity, hey? With you friend—”
His hands moved on the keyboard, and Myfwany’s form appeared on the screen; it split, and gene-coding columns ran down beside it. Yolande’s hands clenched on the arms of the chair, unnoticed despite the force that pressed the fingernails white.
“See, on personality, we’re still not sure about much of the finer tuning. We can set the gross limits—aggressive versus passive, fo’ example, or the general level of libido. Beyond that, the interactions with the environment are too complex. With you friend, most of the parameters are well within the guidelines anyway. So the heritable elements of character will be identical to an unmodified clone.
“Next, we eliminate a number of faults. Fo’ example”—he paused to reference the computer—“you friend had allergies. We get rid of that. Likewise, potential back trouble . . . would’ve been farsighted in old age . . . menstrual cramps . . . any problems?”
“No.” Even with feedback and meditation, those times had been terrible for Myfwany; Yolande had only been able to suffer in sympathy. The child—Gwen, she reminded herself—Gwen would never know that useless pain.
“Next, we come to a number of physical improvements. Mostly by selectin’ within the normal range of variation. Fo’ example, we know the gene groups involved with general intelligence . . . Genius is mo’ elusive, but we can raise the testable IQ to an average of 143 with the methods available. Fo’ your clone, that would mean about fifteen percent up; also, we’ve been able to map fo’ complete memory control, autistic idiot savant mathematical concentration, and so forth. On the athletic side, we build up the heart-lung system, tweak the hemoglobin ratios, alter some of the muscle groups and their attachments, thicken an’ strengthen the bones, eliminate the weaknesses of ligaments—no mo’ knee injuries—and so fo’th.”
“The result?” Yolande said.
“Well, you know, a chimp is smaller than a man . . . and many times stronger. After the ‘tweaking,’ the average strength will increase by a factor of four, endurance by three, reflexes by two, twenty-five-percent increase in sensory effectiveness. Greater resistance to disease, almost total, faster healin’, no heart attacks . . . slightly lower body-fat ratio . . . perfect pitch, photographic memory, things like that.”
“So,” Yolande’s chin sank on her chest. She had wanted . . . He’s right. Gwen has to have the best. As I’d have wanted for Myfwany. “And?”
“Well, this is the most advanced part. We’ve been able to transfer a number of the autonomic functions to conscious control . . . Not all at once! Imagine a baby bein’ able to control its heartbeat! No, we’re keyin’ them to the hormonal changes accompanyin’ puberty, fo’ the most part. Like any Citizen child learns, with meditation an’ feedback, only it’ll be easy fo’ them, natural, able to go much further.
Control of the reproductive cycle. Heartbeat, skin tension, circulation, pupil dilation, pain . . . ”
He looked at the screen. “You friend was in fine condition, but she had to fight fo’ it, a lot of the time, didn’t she? Your . . . Gwen, she’ll be able to set her metabolic rate at will. Eat anythin’, and it’ll be easy to stay in prime shape.”