“No, darling. I tried to think how it would be, if somebody killed you, you know, what she said . . . ”
“That filthy—” He bit off the words. “Sorry, honey.”
“They can’t help what their . . . way of life does to them. You know,” she continued, “I think she really didn’t want to hurt any of us, until she recognized your picture. It was as if she just . . . had a blind spot, couldn’t understand why we weren’t doing what she wanted, as if we were making her fight us. She . . . had them put all the other children in safely, with enough to . . . to eat.”
He held her tighter. “Try not to think of it,” he said. “And, honey, I’d do almost anything for you, except forgive the people who did this to you.”
“I wouldn’t want you to,” she said unexpectedly, looking up at him bleakly. “I don’t want you to become like that, eaten up with hate. But I don’t want those people in the same universe as my children, either. Kill them all, Fred. Whatever you’re doing here, do it.”
The tension went out of her. “I really do feel sorry for them, though. What a life it must be, without a real home, without love—without even natural children. That’s the first love of all, for the baby in your arms.” Cindy yawned. “I feel sort of sleepy, Fred sweetheart,” she whispered. “Take me home.”
He bent and lifted her with infinite gentleness.
CLAESTUM PLANTATION
DISTRICT OF TUSCANY
PROVINCE OF ITALY
JANUARY 5, 1983
“Shit, I hope I’m in time,” Yolande muttered to herself. She keyed the console and spoke: “Central Mediterranean Control, Ingolfsson 55Z-4, here. Mach one-point-one at 9,985 meters, permission to commence descent.”
“CMC here,” an amused voice replied; one of the Citizen supervisors who had been following her dash from the orbital scramjet port in Alexandria. Being a national hero was proving more trying than she had expected, but it had its compensations. “Permission granted, we’ve cleared it.”
“I’m not goin’ need much room,” she replied. Her hand hit the safety overrides—Not designed for fighter pilots anyway—and kept the wings at maximum sweep-back; the Meercat turned on its side and dove.
“Right,” she said. “Remember, this fuckin’ aircar wasn’t built fo’ fighter jocks either.” The ground swelled with frightening speed; she pulled the nose up in a half-Immelmann, vectored the bellyjets to lose speed, grunted as the craft seemed to hit a brick wall in the air. “Aaaaand again.” The sonic boom must have rattled windows for kilometers around. She shoved the wings forward and hit the spoilers; the speed wound down toward aerodynamic stall. “A little too much.” That was the Monte del Chianti ahead; she banked again, giving a touch to the throttle and hedgehopping. That was almost a forgotten sensation; amazing how much faster everything seemed with an atmosphere and planetary surface to reference from.
The Great House lay below her, like a model spread out on its hilltop. Nothing in the front court, and to hell with the pavement. Yolande rolled the craft in a final circuit of the hill, brought the vectored thrust fully vertical; the wings folded into their slots, and she could hear the landing gear extend as she let the aircar fall at maximum safe descent.
“God, I hope I’m in time,” she said to herself. The canopy retracted and she vaulted out, hit the ground running, paused at the main stairs.
“Hiyo, Ma, Pa, I’m home. Am I in time?”
Her parents glanced at each other. “Everyone from here to Florence knows you home, after that approach, and yes. Only just. Run fo’ it, girl!” her father said.
Yolande ran. Through corridors, hurdling furniture, once over a startled housegirl on her hands and knees scrubbing a floor. Wotan and Thunor, I’m like lead, I should have worked out in the high-G spinner more, she thought dazedly as she arrived at the birthroom door, breathing deeply. A voice stopped her.
“Clean up! Youa clean up before you come in!”
Middy Gianelli, no mistaking that bleak voice. Compelling herself not to fidget, Yolande hurriedly stripped off her uniform jacket and her boots, slipped on a sterile robe and slippers and stood under the UV cleanser until the buzzer sounded. Proper procedure, after all. Almost certainly unnecessary, modern antibacterials being what they were, but there was no sense in taking chances with her baby. Suddenly nervous, she stepped through the door.
“Ma!” Gwen was on the other side of the table. “Ma, the baby’s comin’!”
“Hiyo, dumplin’,” Yolande said, distracted. “I know . . . How’s it going, Jolene?” she continued, stepping to the serf’s side.
“Fine, M—nnnnng,” she grunted. The black woman was resting on the birthing table; it was cranked up to support her upper body at a quarter from the horizontal, with a brace for her hips, raised pedestals for her feet; her hands were clenched on grips behind her head.
“You shoulda be asking me that, Mistis,” the midwife said. She was an Italian serf, spare and severe; expensively trained, in her late fifties, much in demand on neighboring plantations. The Draka had never considered pregnancy an illness, and used doctors only when something seemed to be going wrong. “Dilation is complete, the water’s justa broke; position normal, like the scanner said. Nexta time, use this wench again or picka one who’s had her own bambino, it go easier.”
“Glad . . . you . . . here,” Jolene panted.
“No more talk, I been telling you what to do these six months now. Breath in, bear down. Yell if it helps.”
The door opened again; Yolande’s mother and father came in, and her brother John and Mandy; none of her brother’s children were old enough to be here, of course; that would not be fitting until they were near adult. The serf midwife scowled at the newcomers, snapped at her assistant-apprentice. Jolene filled her lungs and bore down with a long straining grunt, again. Again. Again. Her face and body shone with sweat, and her face contorted with her effort. Yolande laid a hand on her swollen belly, feeling the contractions through the palm. Time passed; Yolande looked up with a start and realized it had been nearly an hour. The other adults waited quietly; Gwen left her seat and stood, craning her neck to see around the two serf attendants.
“Oh, wow, Ma,” she said. “I can see the head.”
“Quiet, Gwen,” Yolande said gently. “Come on, Jolene, you can do it.” The contractions were almost continuous now, and there was pain in the grunting cries. She saw the crown of the head slide free of the distended birth canal, red and crumpled and slick with fluids. The stomach convulsed under her hand, and Jolene screamed three times, high and shrill. The baby slid free into the midwife’s filmgloved hands. She cleaned the mouth and nose, then lifted it and slapped it sharply on the behind; it gave a wail as she laid it down on the platform, tied and severed the cord, began wiping the birth bloom, dipping the child in the basin of warm water her assistant held near. The crying continued as she dried and wrapped the child and handed it to Yolande.
“Ah,” the Draka breathed, looking down at the tiny wrinkled form that quieted and peered around with mild, unfocused blue eyes. “My own sweet Nicholas; I’m goin’ call you Nikki, hear?”
Gwen was tugging at her elbow. “Ma, can I see?” Yolande went down on one knee. “Why do they look so . . . rumpled up, Ma? Did I look like that?”
“Just about, honeybunch. They have to squeeze through a pretty tight place, gettin’ out. Here, see how perfect his hands are? Isn’t it wonderful?”