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most of that the choices are endless."
"But how shall I support myself meanwhile?" objected Cee. "Or is support
included?"
"No, you must support yourself. To gain designated alternate points the work
must be over and above the regular economy it's really a kind of labor tax, if
you want to think of it that way. But I thought if you will allow me I can
support you. I make plenty for two as a Rep Center department head and
Desroches and the Chairman have hinted that I may get the Chief of Staff post
at the new Rep Center for the Red Mountain district, when it goes into place
year after next. By then, with diligence, you'll have your D.A. status. And
then it can go really fast, because," Ethan took a breath, "as a designated
alternate parent, you can become a Primary Nurturer to my sons. And being a
Primary Nurturer is, bar none, the fastest way to accumulate social duty
credits toward paternity." Ethan faltered. "I admit, it's not a very
adventurous life, compared to the one you've led. Sitting in a garden, rocking
a cradle someone else's cradle, at that. Though it would be good practice for
your own, and of course I would be happy to stand as designated alternate
parent to your sons."
Cee's voice came out of the darkness. "Is hell an adventure, compared to
heaven? I've been to the bottom of the pit, thank you. I have no wish to
descend again for adventure's sake." His tone mocked the very word. "Your
garden sounds just fine to me."
He sighed long. There was a pause. Then, "Wait a minute, though. I got the
impression the mutual D.A. business, outside the communal brotherhoods, was
sort of like married couples is sex entailed in all this?"
"Well . . ." said Ethan. "No, not necessarily. D.A. arrangements can be, and
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are, entered into by brothers, cousins, fathers, grandfathers anyone qualified
and willing to act as a parent. Parenthood shared between lovers is just the
most common variety. But here you are on Athos, after all, for the rest of
your life. I thought, perhaps, in time, you might grow accustomed to our ways.
Not to rush you or anything, but if you find yourself getting used to the
idea, you might, uh, let me know . . ." Ethan trailed off.
"By God the Father," Cee's voice was amused, assured. And had Ethan really
feared he would surprise the telepath? "I just might."
* * *
Ethan paused in front of the bathroom mirror before turning out the light, and
studied his own face. He thought of Elli Quinn, and EQ-1. In a woman, one saw
not charts and graphs and numbers, but the genes of one's own children
personified and made flesh. So, every ovarian culture on Athos cast a woman's
shadow, unacknowledged, ineradicably there.
And what had she been like, Dr. Cynthia Jane Baruch, 200 years dead now, and
how much had she secretly shaped Athos, all unbeknownst to the founding
fathers who had hired her to create their ovarian cultures? She who had cared
enough to put herself in them? The very bones of Athos were molded to her
pattern. His bones.
"Salute, Mother," Ethan whispered, and turned away to bed. Tomorrow began the
new world, and the work thereof.
Labyrinth
Miles contemplated the image of the globe glowing above the vid plate, crossed
his arms, and stifled queasiness. The planet of Jackson's Whole, glittering,
wealthy, corrupt . . . Jacksonians claimed their corruption was entirely
imported if the galaxy were willing to pay for virtue what it paid for vice,
the place would be a pilgrimage shrine. In Miles's view this seemed rather
like debating which was superior, maggots or the rotten meat they fed off.
Still, if Jackson's Whole didn't exist, the galaxy would probably have had to
invent it. Its neighbors might feign horror, but they wouldn't permit the
place to exist if they didn't find it a secretly useful interface with the
sub-economy.
The planet possessed a certain liveliness, anyway. Not as lively as a century
or two back, to be sure, in its hijacker-base days. But its cutthroat criminal
gangs had senesced into Syndicate monopolies, almost as structured and staid
as little governments. An aristocracy, of sorts. Naturally. Miles wondered how
much longer the major Houses would be able to fight off the creeping tide of
integrity.
House Dyne, detergent banking launder your money on Jackson's Whole. House
Fell, weapons deals with no questions asked. House Bharaputra, illegal
genetics. Worse, House Ryoval, whose motto was "Dreams Made Flesh," surely the
damndest Miles used the adjective precisely procurer in history. House
Hargraves, the galactic fence, prim-faced middlemen for ransom deals you had
to give them credit, hostages exchanged through their good offices came back
alive, mostly. And a dozen smaller syndicates, variously and shiftingly
allied.
Even we find you useful. Miles touched the control and the vid image vanished.
His lip curled in suppressed loathing, and he called up his ordnance inventory
for one final check of his shopping list. A subtle shift in the vibrations of
the ship around him told him they were matching orbits the fast cruiser Ariel
would be docking at Fell Station within the hour.
His console was just extruding the completed data disk of weapons orders when
his cabin door chimed, followed by an alto voice over its com, "Admiral
Naismith?"
"Enter." He plucked off the disk and leaned back in his station chair.
Captain Thorne sauntered in with a friendly salute. "We'll be docking in about
thirty minutes, sir."
"Thank you, Bel."
Bel Thorne, the Ariel's commander, was a Betan hermaphrodite, man/woman
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descendant of a centuries-past genetic-social experiment every bit as bizarre,
in Miles's private opinion, as anything rumored to be done for money by House
Ryoval's ethics-free surgeons. A fringe effort of Betan egalitarianism run
amok, hermaphroditism had not caught on, and the original idealists' hapless [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]