Yolande remembered Myfwany sighing and turning the dessert menu facedown. A wave that was dark and bitter surged up, closing her throat. This is absurd, she thought, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment before nodding to the man to continue.
“A lot of human communication’s by pheromones: sex, dominance, anger, fear. We increase the conscious awareness of ’em, an’ make the subjects able to deliberately govern their own output.” He grinned. “Ought to make social life real interestin’. That’s about it, ’cept fo’ one thing.” A weighty pause, Yolande endured it.
“We’ve been lookin’ into agin’, of course. No magic cures, I’m afraid. The whole system isn’t designed to last. Normal unimproved variety, you and me, Tetrarch; we wear out at a hundred an’ twenty absolute maximum. Modern medicine can keep us goin’ longer, maybe right out to the limit by the time you’re my age, but that’s it. Then”—he shrugged—“you know that Yankee story, about the steamcar made so well everythin’ wore out at once?”
Yolande felt herself snarl at the name of the enemy, hid it with a cough, nodded.
“Best we can do is stretch it. To about two hundred fifty years fo’ the next generation.”
Her eyes opened wide; that was something worth boasting about. “Show me,” she said.
The column of data beside the figure of Myfwany disappeared; a baby’s form replaced it. The infant grew, aged; limbs lengthening, face firming. Yolande stared, caught her breath as it paused at fourteen, eighteen, twenty. Oh, my darlin’! something wailed within her.
No. Not quite the same; the computer could not show the marks experience laid on a human’s face. A few other minor changes, fewer freckles, slightly lighter hair. If you looked very closely, something different about the joints, in the way the muscles grouped beneath the skin.
“Gwen,” she whispered to herself. For a moment the responsibility daunted her; this was a twenty-year duty she was undertaking, not a whim. A person, a Draka, someone she would have to play parent to as long as they lived. Give love, teach honor. Then: “Yes. I understand, Doctor; that’s entirely satisfactory.” She paused. “Just out of curiosity, what’s planned fo’ the serfs along these lines?”
He relaxed. “Oh, much less. That was debated at the highest levels of authority, an’ they decided to do very little beyond selectin’ within the normal human range. Same sort of cleanup on things like hereditary diseases. Average the height about 50 millimeters lower than ours. No IQs below 90, which’ll bring the average up to 110. No improvements or increase in lifespan, beyond that, so they’ll be closer to the original norm than the Race. Some selection within the personality spectrum; toward gentle, emotional, nonaggressive types. About what you’d expect.” He laughed. “An’ a chromosome change, so that they’re not interfertile with us any mo’; the boys can run rampant among the wenches as always without messin’ up our plans.”
“Yes,” she said again, interest drifting elsewhere. “When can we do it?”
“Tomorrow would be fine, Tetrarch. The process of modifyin’ the ova is mostly automatic. Viral an’ enzymic, actually . . . Tomorrow at 1000 hours?”
Yolande looked up as the serf walked into the room. Marya was dressed in a disposable paper shirt; the medical technician pulled it off and pushed her toward the couch. It was at the center of the room, surrounded like a dentist’s chair with incomprehensible machinery, near a curved console with multiple display screens. The room was deep within the Clinic, far from the morning sun; the American captive’s eyes blinked at the harsh overhead lights, reflected from gleaming white tile and synthetic. Her eyes darted from the doctor, busy at the console, to the other serf meditech in white who waited by the table.
She started uncontrollably as she saw Yolande rise from the corner.
“Nhhh!” she gasped, then clenched her teeth, staring at the palm-sized controller clipped to the Draka’s belt. Her left hand hugged the left wrist to her stomach, as if she could bury the controller cuff on it into her flesh, away from the radio commands.
Yolande forced herself to watch the flinch, the eyes gone wide and white around the iris. I should be enjoying this, she thought, hating her weakness, remembering the American’s stubbornness. Instead it made her faintly nauseated, like a wounded dog. The faint medicinal-ozone smell of the Clinic was a sourness at the back of her mouth.
“Marya!” she said sharply. “You won’t be punished, as long as you obey. Do as these people tell you.”
“M-mistis,” the serf stammered. Docile but quivering-tense, she waited while the other technician laid a paper sheet on the table, then climbed onto it and lay back.
“Feet in the stirrups,” the serf technician said. “That’s aright, little momma, this no hurt ata-all.” She buckled the restraints at neck, arms, waist, knees, and thighs. “Now, we get a you ready for the visitor.” She began to rig a visual barrier below the serf’s neck.
“No,” Yolande said, walking closer. The serf looked up with a respectful dip of the head. “No, I want her to see it all.”
The meditech looked toward the doctor, mimicked his slight shrug. “Si, Mistis.” She touched controls instead, and the equipment moved. The couch bent into a shallow curve, raising Marya’s shoulders and buttocks. The stirrups moved apart and back with a slight hydraulic whine, presenting the serf’s genitals.
“Thisa no hurt,” the meditech repeated. She pulled down a dangling line, attached it to Marya’s throat.
The doctor looked up from his screens. “She’s hyperventilatin’ and on the edge of adrenaline blackout,” he said dryly, giving Yolande a resentful look. “One cc dociline.” She could read his thought: Damned amateurs messing up a medical procedure.
Fuck you, she thought back.
Marya’s straining relaxed a fraction, and sanity returned to her eyes. Good, Yolande thought. It would be terrible if she went mad.
“W-what—?” the serf shook her head angrily, as if trying to fling the stammer out of her mouth. “What are you doing to me?”
Yolande rested a hand on her stomach. “Seeding you womb,” she said quietly, looking into the other’s eyes. “Myfwany left me her ova. They don’t have the egg-mergin’ technique mastered yet, or I’d do that. So we’re clonin’ her; you’re to bear the egg.”
The serf froze for a moment, then began to throw herself against the restraints, hard enough to make them rattle; it took Yolande a moment to place the sound she was making. A growl. The two meditechs frowned without looking up from their instruments, and the doctor swore aloud.
“Frey’s prick, Tetrarch!” His hand touched the controls. “Two cc dociline, an’ if you don’t stop interferin’, I won’t be responsible fo’ the procedure!”
Yolande nodded, but spoke once more to the serf. “Marya.” She raised the controller box; the anger drained out of the serf and she whimpered. “If the pregnancy an’ nursin’ go well, I won’t use this on you again. If they don’t, I’ll lock it on until you die! Understand me, wench?”
A frantic nod. Then Marya’s eyes darted down as the meditech touched her.
“Dona you worry, little momma,” the meditech was saying from between the serf’s legs. “This just take a momento.” She had an aerosol can in her hand; with careful, swift movements she applied a thick pink foam to the genital area and lower stomach. “Now just wait a minute.”