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  Nightstorm slowly shook her head. “I wish I could understand you, Raincloud. Ever since you and your consort got your fancy educations in Founders City—it’s been hard. I wish I could understand about these precious genes and chromosomes. I saw chromosomes, once, under a microscope: little pink bands, like strings of sausage, all tangled up. They all looked the same, to me. What I know is, a child born of my body is mine, and the man joined to me cares for it. If I can’t bear my own, then at least I can have one quickened in the clan, in the Hills—not off on some fantastic world I can’t even make out in the night sky.”

  It dawned on her at last, how she and her family had talked past each other. They thought of birth as a gift of the Goddess; they did not think in terms of genes. How far apart she had grown, not to see, even as the linguist she was. The shock of it brought a cold sweat to her forehead.

  “Don’t look like that,” Nightstorm urged her. “I didn’t mean it that way; you’re still one of us, and always will be. We love you, Raincloud, just the way you are. But ... come back to us, will you?” Don’t run away, like Running Wolf had.

  “Of course I will.” What could she have expected, calling her family across the light-years and telling them to make a child in the shon.

  CHAPTER 12

  Hawktalon’s days at the shon had flown by like a swallow winging across the sky. She had quickly fallen in love with the generen, hugging him and stroking his long waterfall of hair, and she wished his daily visits were longer. She had a good head for numbers, and soon reached the top of her class for calculating what sum the Candy Bank had to lend to a factory making lemon drops. And she delighted in matching wits with Maris at the dancing letter games, straining to read her best, until they fell into quarrels and Nana had to separate them.

  The translation machine obsessed her. Maris had occasionally tired of the quest for servo-squeak, but Hawktalon pursued it relentlessly, even when she ran overtime and was late to meet the generen. Nana at first had resisted; but after she had reported the faulty door in the entrance hall, Nana’s attitude underwent a subtle change. She no longer objected to Hawktalon’s adventures with her “toy duck.” She pretended not to notice, but occasionally offered a novel phrase of servo-squeak.

  Doggie had helped even more. The little trainsweep seemed to have gained intelligence during her exile on the raft. She gave Hawktalon a variety of squeak patterns to translate, and tried to “act them out” when the translation failed. “This circuit is short.... The job can’t be finished.... Watch out; the transit vesicle will fuse from above.” Occasional comments about humans turned up: “This citizen will change his mind before the job is finished.... That citizen loses temper and damages equipment.”

  After Sunflower broke the machine at home, Hawktalon was beside herself. She showed Maris the now-silent duck. “I wish he’d never been born,” she told Maris. “It’s horrible to have a younger ‘brother.’” She squeezed Fruitbat savagely.

  “What’s a ‘brother’?” Maris asked, putting the duck under the circuit analyzer, which looked something like a dentist’s X-ray machine.

  “A ‘brother’ is a nasty little shonling you have to live with all day.”

  “Well, I’ve got dozens of those. Servo,” commanded Maris. “Fix the translation duck.”

  A probe extended from the base of the X-ray machine look-alike. “The sound synthesizer network was disabled,” it explained. “The duck should quack now.”

  The duck said, “Quack, quack.”

  “Oh, no.” Hawktalon shook her arms in disgust. “Back to square one. I wish he’d never been born.”

  Nana came by. “You’re lucky to have a little shonsib all your own,” she told Hawktalon. Her cartoon lips opened wide to mouth the words, which actually emanated from a voice box in her neck. “Remember that even little ones grow up, as you do. They grow up and leave the shon. You’ll see tomorrow, at the Metamorphosis.”

  The Metamorphosis was a sort of graduation rite, when shonlings were thought to have grown up enough to leave the shon, generally when they were about thirty years old. Tomorrow the yearly event was due.

  Hawktalon showed Nana the duck. “Can’t you fix it?” she pleaded. “We’ve worked so hard on it.”

  “You know how useful it will be,” Maris added, “to help us keep all the servos running properly.”

  Nana hesitated. She emitted a squeaking trill, a phrase Hawktalon had not heard before. “I’ll try,” she agreed at last.

  Hawktalon jumped for joy and hugged the Nana around her ample waist.

  The next day was the Metamorphosis. Fifty-two of the shonlings were “graduating,” setting off on their own, donning long trains for the first time in their lives. All their junior shonsibs and many alumni attended the grand event, adorned in glittering butterfly trains and breathing of exotic floral perfumes. Hawktalon wore her native skirt-trousers with embroidered volcanoes, drawing nearly as much attention as the graduates.

  For the ceremony, an amphitheater filled with over a thousand people, including shonlings, alumni, and assistant generens. On the stage below stood the graduates. Each one was wrapped tight in a train, meters of patterned seasilk rolled into a “chrysalis” to signal the metamorphosis of each shonling into an adult citizen of Elysium.

  The fifty-two chrysalises stood silently, their faces just peeking out, while an eerie sort of music played and some of the younger shonlings sang. In the meantime Nana strolled down the aisle, checking to make sure her charges behaved themselves. Hawktalon half rose from her seat. “Is it fixed yet?” she whispered loudly.

  Nana paused, but did not answer. She emitted the squeaking trill, like the day before.

  Disappointed, Hawktalon resumed her seat. She whistled the trill to herself, trying to memorize it.

  Maris pulled her sleeve. “Look, the first one.”

  On stage, two chosen shonlings had taken hold of the train of one of the chrysalises. Slowly they walked the end of it around and outward, the train lengthening as it unwound, while a pair of sparkling new trainsweeps picked up the midsection. At last the train unwound completely, revealing the new alumna of the Helishon.

  The theater filled with applause as she walked offstage, and officially, out of the shon.

  “Does she have a mate yet?” Hawktalon wondered. “How will anybody speak to her, if she hasn’t got a mate?”

  “She has one lined up,” Maris explained, “a boy from the Anaeashon.”

  The other chrysalises opened one by one, young goddesses and men, too, leading their trains offstage and outside the shon, where they would parade down the street toward the Nucleus. Hawktalon and many of the shonlings followed them outside, turning cartwheels in the street. The Clicker girl craned her neck for a good look at the Nucleus. “There’s where my ‘mother’ works,” she told Maris proudly.

  When Hawktalon got home that evening, Doggie greeted her with several squeaking phrases she knew well. “Welcome Citizen, come play!” sounded like a minor third followed by ascending steps. “Charge all full now.... Little shonling did funny things,” referring to Sunflower. “Where is teacher-toy?”

  “Sorry, Doggie,” Hawktalon mournfully replied. “The duck is broken.” She whistled a note of disappointment, and Doggie seemed to understand. “Oh, well; I’ve learned most of its vocabulary, anyhow. We’ll have to practice every day,” she told the trainsweep gravely.

  Suddenly she recalled the strange little trill that Nana had made. “Say Doggie, what does this mean?” She reproduced the trill faithfully, as best she could whistle.

  At the sound, Doggie jumped momentarily, all six legs in the air. Then in an instant she had vanished, headed toward the bedrooms.

  “Hey, Doggie!” called Hawktalon. “I didn’t mean anything, honest. Where’d you get to?” She hurried off to search for her.

  “She’s here.” Sunflower was in his room, puttin
g Wolfcub to sleep. “Doggie went under my bed!”

  Hawktalon got down on her hands and knees, squinting. There was the little trainsweep, hiding beneath Sunflower’s bed as far back as she could go, her limbs quaking. Whatever Nana’s trill was, it meant terror to the trainsweep.

  The next day at the shon, Hawktalon pulled at Nana’s skirt to remind her. “Is it fixed yet?”

  Nana turned to her with a broad, questioning smile upon her cartoon face. “Yes, Hawktalon?”

  Hawktalon frowned. There was something odd about Nana’s smile today; it was not the shape of her usual smile. “I said, is the duck fixed today?”

  “Oh yes, of course, dear. I gave it back to Maris.”

  Maris approached, cradling the duck in her arms. “Quack, quack,” said the duck.

  “But it still only quacks,” Hawktalon objected. “I thought you were going to fix it.”

  “It quacks much better, now.” Maris avoided her gaze. “And look, it follows me just like a mother duck.” She set down the duck and skipped off. Sure enough, the duck waddled off after her, quacking all the way.

  “Maris had a talk with the generen last night, about the duck,” Nana explained with her fishy-eyed smile. “The generen is on his way now to talk with you, too. You lucky girl—a cozy chat with the generen! I know you love him so much.”

  “But the translation machine—what happened to it?” There was something definitely wrong with the nana. Hawktalon’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not our usual nana,” she declared. “You’re a different one.”

  Nana laughed. “You’re having fun with me. Why of course I’m the same nana you’ve always had. I remember your first day here. You introduced me to ‘Fruitbat,’” she pronounced accurately in Click-click. “You quoted me a beautiful saying about learning.”

  “You really remember every single thing?”

  “Of course I do.”

  Hawktalon felt the blood pounding in her ears. “Then what was the first question I asked? About servos, remember? What did I ask?”

  Nana hesitated. Now Hawktalon felt confused, and even frightened. What had happened to Nana?

  From the outer corridor came the generen with his long waterfall of hair, striding quickly. “Hawktalon, I’ve been longing to see you.” The generen sounded a bit out of breath.

  Hawktalon took a step backward. “I want to go home.”

  “You do? I’m sorry. You’re angry with us, I can see. Tell me about it. Tell me why you’re angry.” The generen crouched slightly and put his hands on Hawktalon’s shoulders.

  In an instant, the Clicker girl slipped her head beneath the generen’s right arm. Pivoting sharply, she caught his wrist and twisted it clockwise. The generen cried out as he fell to one knee, catching the floor with his left hand, his hair draped aslant across his face.

  “I want to go home.” Hawktalon felt her breath catch; she was very frightened now. Around her, the other shonlings stared openmouthed.

  The generen picked himself up carefully. “Of course, you’ll go home, Hawktalon. But we must have civility. Remember your Room Rules.”

  Hawktalon bolted from the room. She raced down the corridor toward the outer door, swinging Fruitbat under her arm, her feet thudding on the carpet. She reached the place where the door would appear, the door whose defect she had once deduced from servo-squeak. She threw herself upon the wall. “Open, door! Open up and let me out!”

  “I’m so sorry,” came the voice of the door. “Exit is not permitted now.”

  “Let me out! Emergency! Fire, fire!” Hawktalon reached up and pressed the wall, sliding her arms down. “Didn’t I help you, once?” she sobbed. “Please, let me out of here. I want my dad! Daddy, get me out!”

  The wall emitted a squeaking trill, the same sound that Nana had made, the one that had scared Doggie out of her wits. Then a crack opened in the wall, oozing wider, slowly as if with reluctance. It was just enough for Hawktalon to slip outside.

  CHAPTER 13

  The generen stood on the holostage, and Blackbear and Raincloud watched him warily. Hawktalon was confined to her bedroom with Doggie, recovering from her ordeal.

  “I’m so sorry,” explained the generen. He smoothed his hair back over his shoulder with an earnest look. “This happens on occasion when a nana makes a transition; a sensitive child may easily be distressed. Your Hawktalon seems exceptionally sensitive. She must be accustomed to very close family relationships.”

  “I should say so,” Blackbear exclaimed.

  “What’s this ‘transition’ about?” asked Raincloud.

  Sorl clasped his hands. “The nanas are among the most advanced servos we have. Their networks progress so fast that they require cleansing every six months or so, to avoid aberrant connections which might endanger the shonlings. Usually we try to avoid cleansing a nana too soon after a visitor joins the shon; but in this case, Hawktalon’s nana happened to develop a dangerous connection only two months after her last cleansing. I’ve decided to order a replacement and retire this one, just to be absolutely safe.” To “retire” meant to discard and recycle the nanoplast.

  “You’re sure it had nothing to do with her?” asked Raincloud. “Hawktalon didn’t mess up your machine in any way?” She would hold her daughter to account if need be; it was a matter of honor.

  “I don’t think so, unless perhaps her exceptionally intense interactions accelerated the nana’s progression.”

  “She shouldn’t have lost her head like that.”

  “Oh, no,” the generen insisted, “the fault is mine entirely. It was a rare accident, and I’m sure it won’t happen again. Please tell Hawktalon she’s welcome to return. We’re so proud of our multicultural program.”

  The children were in bed, after an unusually taxing day. First Nightstorm’s call, and then Hawktalon’s “escape” from her shon—Blackbear sank exhausted into bed. He stroked Raincloud’s belly, where the skin was now so taut and shiny that even the navel stretched out, cradling their unborn child. “I’m sorry,” he sighed. “I should have kept the home quiet and restful for your child-making, but instead—”

  “Nonsense,” said Raincloud. “Children ought to be born into commotion. They make enough of it.”

  Blackbear grinned. “That’s a fact. Well, I guess I’ll just take the two of them back to the lab tomorrow.”

  She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Are you sure you can handle her? That generen couldn’t. You know, girls reach an age where they won’t listen to men.”

  “We’ll manage,” he said flatly.

  Raincloud was thinking. “I don’t know about that shon.”

  “Well it was hardly my idea, Goddess knows. Raising kids by machine.”

  “It’s sad, though, in a weird way. About the nana.”

  “The generen explained it,” he pointed out.

  She nodded. “It figures. They’re around kids all day, teaching and learning, and pretty soon they learn too much. They start acting up, like Doggie did.”

  Her comment reminded him of Kal’s bizarre warnings. “Do you suppose they might all ‘act up’ one day? What would happen if they did?”

  Raincloud shrugged. “What would happen if all our goats back in Tumbling Rock got up on their hind legs and talked?” She lay back, adding sleepily, “I almost wish they would; maybe they’d talk some sense into people....”

  The pain of it returned. “You tried your best. When we get home, maybe we can see Falcon Soaring.”

  “What about my baby,” she added indignantly. “Mine won’t be born ‘in the Hills’; will she not be good enough for them?”

  Too tired to think any more, he lay back on the bed and closed his eyes.

  “Not yet, dear.” Her hand reached to his groin, spreading fire. “I’ve gotten a bit tight for the mushroom, but I could still use some ... help getting to sleep.”


  The next morning, at breakfast, the house announced, “I have the answer to your question, Citizen Raincloud.”

  Raincloud looked up, puzzled.

  “You asked whether it was possible to grant me a ‘Visiting Day’ safely. I have determined a way to do this. I will set the air circulation on a backup circuit, leave the doors open, and prepare a day’s food to your order. Then I will channel my network into outside connections.”

  Blackbear and Raincloud exchanged glances. Whatever was going on? Blackbear wished he could have a word with Raincloud in private, but there was no privacy from the “house.”

  “Who would you ‘visit,’ exactly?” Blackbear asked, curious and apprehensive. “Whatever would you talk about?” What would Public Safety think, he wondered.

  “Oh, various networks,” the house replied vaguely. “We talk about The Web. What do you think of ‘compassion’?”

  His hair stood on end. “Compassion”—the very same question that Alin had asked, when they first met ten months before. Compassion was the milk of the Goddess; yet in The Web, somehow, the Sharers had turned the notion inside out.

  Raincloud shrugged. “Why not?” she told the house. “In another two weeks, we’ll be out at Kshiri-el for the World Gathering. You’ll have the place to yourself, then.”

  At the lab Hawktalon was on her best behavior, much to Blackbear’s relief. Either she was growing up—or just saving her spit. After playing in Sunflower’s toybox for an hour, she settled at Blackbear’s desk with a pencil and paper. “I’m writing a lexicon for servo-squeak,” she announced. “I have to invent syllabi, first.”

  Blackbear smiled, recognizing her mother’s vocabulary.

  That day he was studying a crucial phase of the genome project: reintroducing the modified chromosomes into the nuclei of “host” egg cells. Normally, in the shon, ova from the germ cell bank would be fertilized with sperm, then inoculated with gene modifiers for longevity. Blackbear planned to use cultured germ cells containing reverse-treated Elysian chromosomes. All the manipulations, however, would be too complex for the living cell; the chromosomes would have to be removed, treated, and replaced.