Galaxy's Edge Magazine Page 21

  “We’ve already practiced chromosome reintroduction,” Onyx told him. “For the shon, so they can mix and match chromosomes within cultured host ova. Our device works now, but we need to improve efficiency and reduce cost. Here’s how it works.”

  The microholostage revealed a transparent human egg. It looked like a water balloon, the coiled chromosomes within its nucleus marked by false color. As Blackbear watched, tiny nanoservos crawled within the nucleus, manipulating the chromosomes. Like animated sewing needles, the nanoservos poked the end of each chromosome into the nuclear membrane, then threaded it through.

  “We grow the eggs in tissue culture,” Onyx explained. “Then we eject their chromosomes, and replace them with the desired ones.”

  Outside the nucleus extended the web of endoplasmic reticulum, tubes of membrane that interconnect by pinching off vesicles, just like the transit reticulum of Helicon. In between floated mitochondria, snakelike organelles that produce energy for the cell. These, too, contained small chromosomes, for mitochondria had originated as free-living cells which were taken up as symbionts, long before animals evolved. All embryonic mitochondria come from the egg; the sperm head contains none. “If the eggs are grown in culture,” Blackbear wondered, “then do all Elysians share the same mitochondria?”

  “Good question. You’re right, they would, but the shon uses several different culture lines to maintain variation. Now, the nuclear chromosomes will get mixed and matched. No Elysian zygote would have just two parents; chromosomes could be brought in from several sources, to maximize variable assortment. For example—here’s an experimental egg that we set up.” Onyx called the room servo to display the stock list for this egg. The list appeared, in strings of disembodied letters. “There’s a L’liite chromosome, number twenty-one. Numbers fourteen, seventeen, and twenty are Valan; look, there’s a couple from your Bronze Sky, too....”

  Within the egg, the nanoservos patiently tugged the new chromosomes into its nucleus; forty-six, there had to be, two of each class, and no mistake. It was more complicated than he had ever imagined.

  A thought occurred to him. “Bronze Sky, you said? They use our chromosomes, too?”

  “Sure,” said Onyx. “Every world they deal with has to donate a bank of their chromosomes, to increase the variety of Elysium’s gene pool.”

  “Sharers, too?”

  “Sure.”

  He watched her webbed fingers, gesticulating above the magnified egg. “Why don’t you see more Sharer traits among Elysians?” he wondered. “Plenty of Valans have obvious Sharer ancestry, like yourself. If some Elysians have Sharer parentage, it should be obvious.”

  She thought a moment. “That’s a good question.”

  “I’d also expect to see more sign of L’liite lineage. I’ve yet to spot an Elysian with coiled hair.”

  “You won’t,” she agreed. “It’s an open secret that the generens use certain germ lines more than others. Anaeans are a bit more broad-minded, but most Elysians prefer light skin and straight hair.”

  Blackbear shook his head. “I can’t understand that. Light skin is defective; it burns, and turns cancerous. We are taught that light is evil. The ancients called their devil the Lord of Light.”

  “Really. The Sharers turn white to recognize evil.” Onyx shrugged. “At any rate, for your project, the chromosomes for an egg will come from just one pair of Elysians.”

  I saw chromosomes, once ... like strings of sausage....The remark of Raincloud’s sister echoed. What am I doing here, he wondered suddenly, playing with genes and nanoservos instead of back in Tumbling Rock setting up a clinic so my sisters and brothers can get decent care?

  That had been his original dream, when he first went to medical school. Then Raincloud’s recruiter had caught his imagination with the pursuit of immortality, on a world across the Fold. But now, the farther he pursued, the more he got lost in a maze without an exit.

  Onyx was staring oddly into space. “One pair of Elysian chromosomes ...” she repeated slowly. Her mouth fell open. “Blackbear—why bother with meiosis? Why not just cut and stitch the Elysian chromosomes in vitro, then put them back into an egg? They wouldn’t even need longevity treatment. The cost saving would pay for the chromosomes’ removal and replacement.”

  Blackbear frowned doubtfully. “Sounds like a lot of stitching.”

  “I wonder. It’s always good to pursue alternatives.”

  The next day, a Valan manufacturer came to explore a joint venture on the genome project. Alin, of course, introduced him to Tulle. A man of modest height, the Valan was taller than anyone in the room save Blackbear. His chest was crossed with ropes of milky gems set in gold. Blackbear stared. A man with such tastes would cost his goddess a pretty penny in Tumbling Rock.

  “My pleasure,” Alin was telling Tulle, “to introduce Lord Hyalite, who meets our highest expectations.”

  “Delighted.” Lord Hyalite nodded to Pirin and Lorl, who sat stiffly in back of the room. “Sorry, I’ll catch up with your mates shortly; I’ve sent, in the meantime, modest tokens of my regard.”

  “A thousand credits worth of gems and furs,” Draeg whispered to Blackbear. “And for them, it’s not good enough.”

  The two young Elysians retained their glacial stares, for they were put out by the shortcut introductions. Blackbear grinned. “Give them a few decades, remember,” he told Draeg.

  “Thanks,” said Tulle. “Do stay on, Alin; you may be of help to us, with your knowledge of the banks.”

  “Most helpful,” the Valan agreed with a nod.

  Alin grinned. “My kind of help may not be the most welcome.”

  “We think we have a breakthrough,” Tulle told the Valan. “The genome project may be much closer to implementation than we thought.”

  Lord Hyalite nodded. “The potential market for such a process is enormous. Immortal children for all.”

  For all who could afford it, Blackbear added silently. Non-Elysian parents would still require longevity treatment, and growth in a shon.

  “The chromosome reinsertion is the key thing,” Tulle said. “It’s not yet reliable enough for general use. Several technical improvements are needed.” Her assessment was a bit less optimistic than Onyx’s.

  “It can be done,” agreed the Valan. “Our experts think they can do the job. With reasonable financing ...”

  Tulle tugged Alin’s sleeve. “Who might be interested, do you think? Bank Helicon?”

  Alin frowned. “Bank Helicon lacks major investment in biologicals. They’re a conservative institution.”

  Blackbear recalled the L’liite loans. If Bank Helicon was conservative, he shuddered to think what the rest were like.

  The Valan stroked his chin. “Still, my House has several centuries of credit history with Bank Helicon. They should give us a good rate.”

  Then Blackbear recalled something he had heard from Raincloud. “You know, Iras Letheshon ...”

  As heads turned toward him, he felt reluctant to reveal a confidence. “Iras has ... expressed interest in our project.”

  “Iras Letheshon,” the Valan repeated eagerly. “She’s a senior officer in the foreign division. We’ve worked with her. Her portfolio is diversified, and she’s an aggressive lender. I’ll get in touch with her—after the World Gathering, of course.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Verid and Iras enjoyed a rare evening home together: A costly event, for as a Subguardian, a major public servant, she paid an extra premium for personal privacy. Subguardians had even more special “exceptions” and “adjustments” to their Visiting Days than Sub-Subguardians did, and for Guardians the requirement virtually disappeared. The logens regularly deplored this abuse of power.

  Iras had taken the opportunity to show off her new skill at rei-gi. She swung her arms and legs deftly around unseen opponents, then she tumbled over and over, build
ing up to flying somersaults. Verid watched with pleasure and bemusement. “I knew you had many talents, dear, but this I would never have dreamed of.”

  “Well,” said Iras, catching her breath, “a stay in the Palace of Rest makes you think.”

  “Indeed.” Verid added mischievously, “I think it’s that lovely new friend of yours that makes you think.”

  Iras frowned slightly. “Foreigners make me sad. Like the butterflies, they’re ... ephemeral.”

  “Butterflies are immortal,” Verid corrected quietly. “They do not know that they will die.” It was hard, getting to know foreigners. They ebbed away so swiftly, and so horribly. Already Raincloud had those ugly little lines around her eyes.

  Iras stepped out of her rei-gi suit. The house molded a shower stall, indenting into the near wall, where Verid could watch her. After a quick drying by servo arms, Iras came and joined Verid on the couch.

  Verid lay back with Iras’s arm behind her, while the house servo played an ancient dance melody. The couch knew her and Iras so well that at a touch, it molded itself precisely to their desires. She leaned her head back and stretched her arms. Overhead, the ceiling had become a show of dancers, their images flitting to the music.

  “I got an unusual call today ...” Iras’s mind never left her work for long. “It’s about that genome project—for Elysians to make their own babies.”

  Verid smiled. “All that technology, so Elysians can do what foreigners do in a moment of love.”

  “Be serious!” Iras squeezed her arm playfully, then gently stroked her breast. “Even two women could do it, this way.”

  “The Sharers have done that, for a long time.”

  “Their way takes technology, too, for the imprinting.” Iras sighed. “In any case, the Sharers won’t allow it, will they?”

  “Our treaty promises only that Elysium will limit its population. Centralized gestation assures that. The genome project won’t change that directly; in the short term, it will only increase the cost and intensify the centralization.”

  In the long term, of course, who could say? Suppose the people reinvented a “right” to have one’s own child. That was what Kal was afraid of. Verid had more pressing worries—like meeting Zheron the next day. It was Zheron, after all, who had accepted the shonlings’ invitation, just as she figured. Her mind was full of this, but she could not breathe a word to her mate.

  Iras turned on her side and faced Verid eagerly. “Then let’s do it, you and I. After the process is developed and the bugs are worked out—why not?”

  This was a twist. “You forget, my dear, I’ve raised hundreds of children.”

  “As a generen—it’s not the same. Not like Raincloud; she’s the sun, moon, and stars to her children.” Iras added thoughtfully, “I do miss all your little shonlings with their delightful toys.”

  “And all my nights on call.” Verid shuddered to remember all the scrapes children got themselves into. And the small percentage of longevity-treated infants that failed to “take.” The recollection still brought nightmares.

  “Another couple of decades of running the world, and it might not look so bad,” Iras said. “Wouldn’t it be sweet, to retire and raise our own little girl?”

  “I don’t run the world yet, you know.” Despite herself Verid smiled. “Yes,” she admitted, “I could see a little Iras running around.”

  The music was fading, and the dancing images receded one by one. Time for sleep, the house knew well, and she would need her rest to face Lord Zheron again.

  Verid met the Urulite envoy as Hyen had directed, on a satellite in a distant orbit, outside the range of everyday communications. In theory secrecy would be complete—something close to impossible in Elysium.

  “Greetings,” said Verid dryly. “How fares the young Imperator?” Speaking in Elysian, she keenly missed Raincloud, for she knew but a few words of Urulite.

  Lord Zheron had changed little since their last meeting in person, the day Raincloud first came to the Nucleus. He still wore his chain mail, his silver bands, and assorted antiquated weapons at his waist.

  “The Imperator is never young,” Zheron exclaimed. “The Imperator is ancient. He rules the sea and stars for generations uncounted.”

  “Very well, then, how fares the ancient Imperator?”

  “His Majesty Rhaghlan, descendent of immortal Azhragh and Mirhiah, rules with the greatness to be expected of the greatest of Imperators.”

  Verid repressed her annoyance. “Our shonlings are young enough—much too young to accept any of your harebrained schemes. Look, Zheron, you’ve got some explaining to do.”

  Zheron relaxed in his chair. “What is there to explain?” he replied, more quietly. “Your spies know everything.”

  “Not everything.” No need to reveal how much. “You betrayed my trust. In the name of ‘honor,’ you owe me a full explanation.”

  He chuckled, probably at the notion that Verid, an Elysian female, could have any honor. “Who can predict when the Succession will occur?” The word “death” was never to be spoken, in connection with the Imperator. “You knew as well as I the condition of the Imperial father. You knew I would have to leave sometime, on short notice. Yet all you could think of was that foolish Valan ship that crossed our border to spy.”

  “For which you apologized, but nothing more,” Verid reminded him.

  “I told you—our resources are exhausted. We can barely feed our females and children.”

  And slaves, she added mentally. “If Urulan can’t afford food, then how do you manage to support a force of interstellar missiles aimed at us?”

  Zheron hesitated, then he smiled slyly. “Your spies are not so good.”

  Whatever did that mean, she wondered. “Well, you can’t browbeat any resources out of us. Why should I deal with you at all?”

  “For peace. The Imperator desires peace. You must pay a state visit to the Azure Throne.”

  “Out of the question,” Verid responded irritably. “I can’t even meet you in public. You’ve managed to alienate every world in the Fold.”

  “Then come in secret,” Zheron urged. “The new Imperator shares a number of your interests; for instance, the liberation of females and slaves.”

  Verid’s astonishment must have shown on her face, for Zheron tossed his head back and laughed. “Your spies are good for nothing! See, you need to know our Imperator better.”

  “I know that he was fourth in line for the throne,” she replied coldly.

  “Self-defense. What else could the prince do? He struck before the others did.”

  It gave her vertigo, to switch dealing between Sharers and Urulites; the first never took life, the others never spared it.

  “Rhaghlan has a strong following,” Zheron pointed out. “He inspires confidence among the people. He will lead Urulan into the modern age.”

  Despite her skepticism, Verid could not ignore the chance of a real breakthrough. “Certain conditions would have to be met. Negotiations for disarmament; we’d bring a telescan to verify your missiles.” Valan intelligence had cataloged Urulan’s missiles pretty well, but an up-to-date telescan could count and identify them precisely—and secretly “tag” each one with a remote-warning device. This demand would check Zheron’s enthusiasm.

  Zheron paused as if giving it serious consideration. “Bring your telescan,” he commanded with a condescending wave of the hand. “You need it, your spies are so bad.”

  For a moment she was speechless. What game could this Urulite be up to? “Surely you need to consult your Imperator.”

  “Of course. But His Majesty places full trust in me. We are not so bureaucratic as you are.”

  The Urulite could not be serious. After decades of isolation, to invite her in to count and tag their interstellar missiles? If Zheron really meant it, they could pull off a great diplomatic c
oup, upstaging the Valans, on whose defense Elysium had long relied.

  Zheron acted as though the point were settled. He sat forward and clasped his hands. “We must set a date at once. The Feast of Azhragh would be a propitious time.”

  She raised a hand. “Nothing can happen until the World Gathering’s out of the way. Then, assuming Hyen consents, we’ll need at least three months to prepare—”

  “Tell us your requirements,” Zheron demanded. “Dietary needs, quarters for slaves and minions, and so on.”

  “Aides and security,” she corrected.

  “All will be our guests.” He stopped, suddenly reflective. “There is one thing to keep in mind, however,” he said slowly. “The Imperator is a man of the purest royal blood—descended from immortals. When you meet him, you will immediately recognize this fact. Such an august presence demands treatment with appropriate respect ...” Something about the prospect troubled him.

  “Our delegation would include men,” she offered, guessing that was the problem.

  With a sweep of his arm Zheron dismissed this. “You’re all female, you Elysians. Bring someone who understands our customs. Bring that interpreter, Lord Raincloud. She is a man of honor.”

  CHAPTER 15

  The World Gathering met at Kshiri-el, with its haunting memorial remnants of Raia-el, the great raft whose sisters had led the resistance to the Valan invasion and later had produced the classic The Web.

  Before the Valan invasion, Sharers had been stubborn anarchists, avoiding global government. Any conflict of interest over population growth or over the founding of new rafts could be settled at the level of the raft cluster, or at most the neighboring octet of clusters. But the encroachment of foreigners had at last convinced the Sharers that they needed to face this larger world together.

  So now the bald purple women met each year after the swallowers had crossed northward on their return migration, once again clearing the seas of overgrowth. From raft clusters all over the globe the delegates came, five hundred or more, many in boats drawn by giant squid, as their ancestors had traveled for centuries before foreign contact. Others piloted small Valan boats, outfitted with special silent motors. Clickflies brought word of troublesome weather to be avoided, and nowadays Elysian assistance, too, was accepted.