Yolande’s mother had borne four children naturally, but seemed to prefer the new method wholeheartedly.
“I’ll have to pick a brooder,” she said.
“No problem . . . ‘Ship out’?” her schoolfriend said.
Yolande shrugged, spread her hands and looked from side to side in the universal Draka gesture for secrecy. Not that the Security Directorate needed to have spies hiding behind bushes these days.
“Be gone fo’ quite some time. Months, leastways.”
Gwen made a protesting sound, frowning and pouting, blinking back tears. Yolande moved over toward her on the stone bench, smoothing the copper hair back from her brow.
“Now, where’s my big brave girl?” she said gently. “Momma has her work, an’ I’ll bring you back another piece of a star, sweetie.” Gwen had been just old enough after the last voyage to understand that the light pointed out in the sky was where her mother had been, and the lump of rock from Ganymede was her most precious possession.
“I don’ want a star. I want Momma!” She tugged on Marya’s hair. “Tantie-ma, tell Momma she cain’ go!”
“Hush, Missy Gwen. You know I can’t tell your mother what to do.” The serf wrapped her arms around the child and made soothing noises.
“Now, don’t be a baby, Gwen,” Yolande said. “Momma doesn’t have to leave fo’ a week yet”—which was forever to a child this age—“and when I go, you can come up to the station with me, how’s that? Right up above the sky.” No more risky than an ordinary scramjet flight, these days, and she could probably swing it.
“And you’ll have Uncle John and Auntie Mandy and Tantie-ma, too, and all the friends you makes at school next year. Oh,” she continued, looking up at Marya. “I meant to tell you. I’ve posted bond, you’re moved up to Class III Literate.” That meant nontechnical and nonpolitical literature, and limited computer access to menu-driven databanks; the classics, as well, most of them.
Marya looked down, flushing. “Thank you, Mistis,” she whispered. For an instant Yolande thought she caught something strange and fierce in the wench’s expression, then dismissed it. Must have been boring, nothing much to read, she thought. Should have done this before. Gwen subsided, looking up with nervous delight at the thought of flying to orbit.
“Well, what have we planned?” Yolande asked.
“Lunch,” John said. “Then the Athenaeum, then dinner at Saparison’s. Then there’s a Gerraldson revival at the Amphitheater, the Fireborn Resurrection, and Uncle Eric used some pull to get us a box. We’ll drop the children off first, of course.”
“Nnoo, I think Gwen might enjoy it,” Yolande said, considering. “The dancin’ at least. Marya can keep her quiet, or take her out in the gardens if not.” And it would be a treat for Marya as well; she had been behaving well of late. Gwen was certainly devoted to her, which was a good sign.
The electrocar had hissed up on the smooth black roadway a dozen meters away. The main processional streets of Archona had been the first public places in the solar system to be fitted with superconductor grids, just last year. Their car floated by the curb, motionless and a quarter meter above the roadway as the gull-wing doors folded up; it still looked a little unnatural to Yolande for something to hover so on Earth, without jets or fans. She reached out for Gwen’s hand and the child took it in one of hers and offered the other to Marya. Their eyes met for a moment over the child’s head, before they turned to walk behind the others.
Strange, Yolande thought. Life is strange, really.
“I did it! Cohortarch, independent command, I did it!” Jolene looked up smiling as Yolande collapsed backward onto the bed in her undertunic, the formal gown strewn in yards of fabric toward the door. The room was part of a guest suite in the von Shrakenberg townhouse, beautiful in an extremely old-fashioned way; inlaid Coromandel sandalwood screens in pearl and lapis, round water-cushioned bed on a marble dais with a canopy, a wall of balcony doors in frosted glass etched over with delicate traceries of fern and water fowl. They were opened slightly, letting in a soft diffuse glow of city light cut into fragments by the wind-stirred leaves of ancient trees; it smelled of water, stone, and frangipani blossoms, and the air was just warm enough to make nakedness comfortable.
“Congratulations, Mistis . . . again,” the serf said.
Yolande shook her head wordlessly; it had been a perfect evening, after a stone bitch of a week shuttling from one debriefer to the next and wondering what the Board would say. Her mind still glowed from the impossible beauty of Gerraldson’s music . . . Why had he killed himself, at the height of his talent? Why had Mozart, for that matter? And this mission, it was the perfect opportunity, for so many things. She rolled onto one elbow and watched Jolene. The serf was sitting on a stool before the armoire, brushing out her long loose-curled blond mane, dressed in a cream silk peignoir that set off the fine-grained ebony of her skin. And also showed off the spectacular lushness of her figure; the black serf had filled out a little without sagging at all. The Draka grinned.
“You pick out a father fo’ the new baby, Mistis?” Jolene asked. “That nice Mastah Markman?”
Yolande chuckled. “No, not this time. We’re giving it a raincheck fo’ a while, different postin’s.” Teller had been a good choice for an affair; interesting and friendly without trying to get too close. “Myfwany’s brother agreed to release sperm from the Eugenics banks when I asked. As fo’ you, wench, you just miss the variety.” She and Teller had tumbled Jolene together a few times, and the wench had been enthusiastic.
“Mmmh.” Jolene said, meeting her owner’s eyes in the mirror as her hands brushed methodically. “It was nice.” More seriously: “Nice to see yo smilin’ agin, Mistis.”
Yolande shrugged, sighed. “Ah, well . . . You can only grieve so long. Gwen deserved better, little enough she sees of me.” Work could keep you busy, hold the pain at bay until it faded naturally; work and the things of daytime. Nights were worst, and the moments when the protective tissue seemed to fall away and everything came back raw and fresh. “Grief dies, like everythin’ else.” For a moment, her mind was beyond the walls, under the unwinking stars. Except hate. Hatred is forever, like love.
Jolene rose, arranged the armoire table, bent to pick up the gown and fold it, swaying and glancing occasionally at the Draka out of the corner of her eyes. Yolande watched with amusement, lying on her stomach with her feet up and her chin in her hands.
“Oh, fo’get the play-actin’ and come here, wench,” she said. “I know what you want.” Jolene sank down on the padded edge of the bed and Yolande knelt up behind her, reaching around to open the buttons of the silk shift and take the serf’s breasts in her hands; she traced her fingers over the smooth warmth of them and up to Jolene’s neck, down again to tease at the pointed nipples. Her own desire was increasing, a soothing-tingling whole-body warmth.
“Mmmm feels nice . . . Mistis? Mmm—” as Yolande ran her tongue into the other’s ear. “Mistis, you picked the brooder yet?”
“Freya, you feel good. Up fo’ a second.” She drew the garment over the serf’s head and tossed it aside. “You first. The brooder? No, I’ll look at the short list when we get back to Claestum.” There were always plenty of volunteers to carry a Draka child; it meant a year of no work and first-rate rations at the least, often the chance of promotion to the Great House, personal-servant work or education beyond birth-status. Being a child-nurse as well as brooder was a virtual guarantee of becoming a pampered Old Retainer later. “Lie down.”