The Stone Dogs

  Yolande turned, braced her hands against the wall. Something inside her seemed to crumble, and she felt an overwhelming panic. Gods, he's right. I'm poisoning all I have left. That couldn't be right. It's her fault … Or is it my fault?

  "All right," she said dully. "All right." His hand touched her shoulder gently, and she turned into his embrace. "All right." Her neck muscles were quivering-rigid, but her eyes stayed dry.

  "Yo' want me to handle gettin' rid of her?" he asked.

  She straightened, wiped her hands down her trouser legs, looked over at the serf. Appraisingly, this time. "No," she said calmly. "Yo' right. I won't use the controller on her any more. I'll try and have her patched up… but I'm not lettin' her go. Lettin' go isn't my strong point, brother. But thank yo'. Thank yo' all." A nervous gesture smoothed back her hair. "Iff'n she recovers, I'll… Oh, I don't know. Find somethin' else fo' her to do. That enough."

  He nodded. "Welcome back."

  She laughed, quietly bitter. "Not yet. Just startin', maybe." A glance at the sunlight. "I've got the afternoon, befo' I have to take the car in." She was on short-leave. "See yo' at dinner."

  I am Marya.

  "Oh, y' poor hurt thing."

  Gentle hands were lifting her, holding a glass to her lips. She recognized the hands, the scent; they were surcease from pain. Black hands, sweet voice.

  I am Marya Lefarge.

  "C'mon, honey, we gets y' to the doctor. Give y' somethin' to sleep. Mistis isn't goin' do that no mo', she was just crazy, honest, no more."

  I am Captain Marya Lefarge.

  She was walking into a place that smelled half medicinal, half of country air, warmth. Children were playing outside, she could hear them. She was lifted into a soft bed; a pill was between her lips. Drowsy.

  "No more painmaker, no mo'."

  I am Captain Marya Lefarge, and nothing can hurt me. Because beside that there was no pain. She had felt the worst thing in the world, and she was still alive. Nothing can hurt me. I will remake myself. However long it takes, I will.

  "Ah, Myfwany." The turf had healed over the grave, on the hill across from the manor. It was lonely here, not many graves in the Ingolfssons' burying ground yet… She looked up to the next space; that would be hers.

  "I wanted to die, Myfwany, for… it seemed like a long time. Or to go away, go away from it all. And I had to keep goin', keep on doin' things. The things we talked about, the Astronautics! Academy, qualifyin'. So dry , it was like I was dead, dead on my feet and rottin', and nobody could notice. They say it heals… Oh, do I want it to?"

  Yolande hugged her knees to her and laid her head on them; one hand smoothed the short damp grass. Somewhere she could feel a pair of warm green eyes open, somewhere in the back of her mind.

  "Yes, love, I know. I takes things too much to heart." A rough laugh. "Yo' wouldn't have gone… hog-wild with that Yankee, the way I did. It should've been yo' that lived that night, love."

  The Draka rose, dusting off her trousers. "I promise I'll do bettah now, Myfwany-sweet. Somehow I'll find a true revenge fo' yo'. And…" Her eyes rested on the far hills. I think it would be better if I could weep, at least alone, she thought. "I'll live, as yo'd have said. Make the memories live, somehow." Her eyes closed, and she felt scar-tissue inside herself. Scars don't bleed, but they don't feel as well, either. "Goodbye fo' now, my love. Till we meet again."

  EUGENICS BOARD NATALITY CLINIC

  FLORENCE

  DISTRICT OF TUSCANY

  PROVINCE OF ITALY

  DOMINATION OF THE DRAKA

  SEPTEMBER, 1976

  "Now, shall we proceed, Citizen?" the doctor asked politely. He had glanced at the medal ribbons as she came into the office, and Yolande suspected he would look up her record again as soon as she left. A tall thin wiry man with cropped graying dark hair and brown eyes, with a Ground Command thumb-ring. Technical Section, she decided.

  The office was a large room near the roofline of a converted Renaissance palazzo down near the Arno; the windows looked away from the river, out to the Cathedral with its red-and-white candystripe Giotto belltower and the green mountains beyond. It was cheerfully light, white-painted with a good tapestry on the inner wall, bright patterned tile floors, rugs, modem inlaid Drakastyle furniture. There was a smell of river and clean warm air from outside, faint traffic noises, the fainter sound of a group of brooders counting cadence as they went through their exercises.

  "The brooder I sent in is satisfactory?" she said.

  The doctor kept his eyes steady on hers as she turned back from the window, but could not prevent an inward flinch. You saw suffering in his line of work, but not like that.

  "A little underweight, but otherwise fine," he replied, calling up the report. "The psych report indicates stabilized trauma, surprisin' recovery. Hmmm, primagravida… good pelvic structure, but are yo' sure a licensed Clinic breeder wouldn't do?" Yolande shook her head wordlessly. "The technicians report she's… hmmm, seems to have been under very severe stress. Good recovery, as I said, no biological agent; still, I'd swear she's been sufferin' from somethin."

  "She has," Yolande said, with a flat smile.

  "What?"

  "Me."

  The doctor opened his mouth, shut it again with a shrug. It was the owner's business, after all. "Well," he said after another consultation with the screen. "We adjusted her hormone level, so she's ready fo' seeding anytime. Now, as to the clone." He paused delicately.

  Yolande lit a cigarette, disregarding his frown. The new gene-engineered varieties of tobacco had virtually no carcinogens or lung-contaminants, and the soothing was worth the slight risk.

  "I'd think it was simple enough," she said. The glassy feeling was back, a detachment deeper than any she had ever achieved in meditation. "My lover was killed in India. I want a clone-child, with this wench as brooder."

  "Tetrarch Ingolfsson… yo' do understand, a clone is not a reproduction? All the same genes, yes, but—"

  "Personality is an interaction of genetics an' environment, yes, I am familiar with the facts, doctor." She sank into a chair. It was odd, how the same physical sensation could carry such different meanings. The smooth competence of her own body; a year ago, it had been a delight. Now… just machinery, that you would be annoyed with if it did not function according to spec. "I realize that I'm not getting Myfwany back." Something surged beneath the glass, something huge and dark that would shatter her if she let it. Breathe. Breathe, calm.

  The medico steepled his fingers. "Then there's the matter of the Eugenics Code."

  She stubbed out the cigarette and lit another. "I'm askin fo' a clone. Doctor. Not a superbeing."

  "Yes, yes… are yo' aware of the advances we've made in biocontrol in the last decade?"

  Yolande shrugged. "I've seen ghouloons," she said. "Bought a modified cat awhiles ago."

  He smiled with professional warmth. "If yo'll examine that-there screen by yo' chair, Citizen." It lit. "Now, we've had the whole human genome fo' some time now, identified the keyin' and activation sequences." His face lit with a more genuine warmth, the passion of a man in love with his work. "Naturally, we're bein' cautious. The mistakes they made with that ghouloon project, befo' they got it right! We're certainly not talkin' about introducing transgenetic material or even many modified genes. Or makin' a standard product."

  Double-helix figures came to three-dimensional life on the screen. "Yo' see, that's chimp DNA on the left, human on the right. Ninety-eight percent identical, or better! So a few changes can do a great deal, a great deal indeed." Seriously: "And those changes are bein'… strongly encouraged. Not least, think of how handicapped a child without them would be!"

  "Tell me," Yolande said, leaning forward, feeling a stirring of unwilling interest beneath the irritation.

  "Well. What we do is run analysis against the suggested norm, an' modify the original as needed. Saves the genetic diversity, hey? With yo' friend—"

  His hands moved on the keyboard, a
nd Myfwany's form appeared on the screen; it split, and genecoding columns ran down beside it. Yolande's hands clenched on the arms of the chair, unnoticed despite the force that pressed the fingernails white.

  "See, on personality, we're still not sure about much of the finer tuning. We can set the gross limits—aggressive versus passive, fo' example, or the general level of libido. Beyond that, the interactions with the environment are too complex. With yo' friend, most of the parameters are well within the guidelines anyway. So the heritable elements of character will be identical to an unmodified clone."

  "Next, we eliminate a number of faults. Fo' example," he paused to reference the computer, "yo' friend had allergies.

  "We get rid of that. Likewise, potential back trouble… would've been farsighted in old age… menstrual cramps… Any problems?"

  "No." Even with feedback and meditation, those times had been terrible for Myfwany; Yolande had only been able to suffer in sympathy. The child—Gwen, she reminded herself— Gwen would never know that useless pain.

  "Next, we come to a number of physical improvements. Mostly by selectin' within the normal range of variation. Fo' example, we know the gene-groups involved with general intelligence… Genius is mo' elusive, but we can raise the testable IQ to an average of 143 with the methods available. Fo' your clone, that would mean about fifteen percent up; also, we've been able to map fo' complete memory control, autistic idiot savant mathematical concentration, and so forth. On the athletic side, we build up the heart-lung system, tweak the hemoglobin ratios, alter some of the muscle groups and their attachments, thicken an' strengthen the bones, eliminate the weaknesses of ligaments—no mo' knee injuries— and so fo'th."

  "The result?" Yolande said.

  "Well, yo' know, a chimp is smaller than a man… and many times stronger. After the 'tweaking,' the average strength will increase by a factor of four, endurance by three, reflexes by two, twenty-five percent increase in sensory effectiveness. Greater resistance to disease, almost total, faster healin', no heart attacks… slightly lower body-fat ratio… perfect pitch, photographic memory, things like that."

  "So." Yolande's chin sank on her chest. She had wanted… He's right. Gwen has to have the best. As I'd have wanted for Myfwany. "And?"

  "Well, this is the most advanced part. We've been able to transfer a number of the autonomic functions to conscious control… Not all at once! Imagine a baby bein' able to control its heartbeat! No, we're keyin' them to the hormonal changes accompanyin' puberty, fo' the most part. Like any Citizen child learns, with meditation an' feedback, only it'll be easy fo' them, natural, able to go much further. Control of the reproductive cycle. Heartbeat, skin tension, circulation, pupil dilation, pain…"

  He looked at the screen. "Yo' friend was in fine condition, but she had to fight fo' it, a lot of the time, didn't she? Your Gwen, she'll be able to set her metabolic rate at will. Eat anythin', and it'll be easy to stay in prime shape."

  Yolande remembered Myfwany sighing and turning the dessert menu face-down. A wave that was dark and bitter surged up, closing her throat. This is absurd, she thought, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment before nodding to the man to continue.

  "A lot of human communication's by pheromones: sex, dominance, anger, fear. We increase the conscious awareness of 'em, an' make the subjects able to deliberately govern their own output." He grinned. "Ought to make social life real interestin'. That's about it, 'cept fo' one thing." A weighty pause; Yolande endured it.

  "We've been lookin' into agin', of course. No magic cures, I'm afraid. The whole system isn't designed to last. Normal unimproved variety, yo' and me, Tetrarch, we wear out at a hundred an' twenty absolute maximum. Modern medicine can keep us goin' longer, maybe right out to the limit by the time you're my age, but that's it. Then,"—he shrugged—"yo' know that Yankee story, about the steamcar made so well everythin' wore out at once?"

  Yolande felt herself snarl at the name of the enemy, hid it with a cough, nodded.

  "Best we can do is stretch it. To about two hundred fifty years fo' the next generation."

  Her eyes opened wide; that was something worth boasting about. "Show me," she said.

  The column of data beside the figure of Myfwany disappeared; a baby's form replaced it. The infant grew, aged; limbs lengthening, face firming. Yolande stared, caught her breath as it paused at fourteen, eighteen, twenty. Oh, my darlin'! something wailed within her.

  No. Not quite the same; the computer could not show the marks experience laid on a human's face. A few other minor changes, fewer freckles, slightly lighter hair. If you looked very closely, something different about the joints, in the way the muscles grouped beneath the skin.

  "Gwen," she whispered to herself. For a moment the responsibility daunted her; this was a twenty-year duty she was undertaking, not a whim. A person, a Draka, someone she would have to play parent to as long as they lived. Give love, teach honor. Then:

  "Yes. I understand, Doctor; that's entirely satisfactory."

  She paused. "Just out of curiosity, what's planned fo' the serfs along these lines?"

  He relaxed. "Oh, much less. That was debated at the highest levels of authority, an' they decided to do very little beyond selectin' within the normal human range. Same sort of clean-up on things like hereditary diseases. Average the height about 50 millimeters lower than ours. No IQ's below 90, which'll bring the average up to 110. No improvements or increase in lifespan, beyond that, so they'll be closer to the original norm than the Race. Some selection within the personality spectrum; towards gentle, emotional, nonagressive types. About what yo'd expect." He laughed. "An' a chromosone change, so that they're not interfertile with us any mo'; the boys can run rampant among the wenches as always without messin' up our plans."

  "Yes," she said again, interest drifting elsewhere. "When can we do it?"

  "Tomorrow would be fine, Tetrarch. The process of modifyin' the ova is mostly automatic. Viral an' enzymic, actually… Tomorrow at 1000 hours?"

  Yolande looked down into her brandy snifter. It was her second, and she could barely remember tasting it. Barely remember tasting the meal, or even pushing the food around the plate; the gelato lay melting before her. It no longer seemed like treason that the body carried on; it was treason that the mind healed, kept trying to involve her in things. She took another sip, welcoming a numbness that was easier imposed from without than within. I have to watch this, some distant part of her mind told her. Myfwany's honor was part of her now; she bore it in trust. She must be faultless, at least in the eyes of the world and the Race, or that trust would be disgraced.

  She looked up; it was full dark, here on the terrace beside the Amo. Little was left of the prewar town this close to the river, little except the timeless arcs of the bridges. Her people had turned the banks into parks and pleasanoes like this little outdoor restaurant; light globes on cast-iron stands were scattered among the tall dark shapes of the cypresses and the lush late-summer flowers. A few boats went by, and she could see folk strolling the colored-brick walks, hear low talking and music. Above, the stars were out, and the sickle moon. It was still warm enough to bring a slight prickle under the armpits of her uniform tunic.

  Yolande strained her eyes. Was that a light, just across the line of the Lunar terminator? She decided not. Someday the city her folk were building there would be visible from Earth, but not yet. There were moving lights aplenty above, though; one to the west that might be a laser-lift from the Herakulopolis launcher at the Straits of Gibraltar.

  It's there I should be, she thought. Out where there's something to do. Where there's an enemy to kill. You could forget a great deal, in war. Even loneliness.

  "Excuse me, Tetrarch," a voice said. Yolande brought her eyes down and saw a man standing respectfully near the other side of the table. About her age, with an Aerospace Corps thumb-ring. Unremarkable, with close-cropped hair a dark-blond color, blue eyes, skin the startling white of someone not exposed to sunlight for some time. "Mind
if I join you? Teller Markman, Centurion, Drive Officer on the Conqueror."

  She blinked. That was the deep-space probe, the fourth Jovian expedition; it had just barely avoided the Americans on its return through the Belt. Yolande looked him up and down; he raised a brow at the coldness of it, then relaxed as she smiled lopsided.

  "Why not?" she said. There were worse distractions.

  "Sorry," Teller Markman said, easing out of her and away. Yolande gave him a final squeeze and unwrapped her legs from around his.

  She sighed and rolled onto her back, stroking the knuckles of one hand down his cheek.

  " I mmmm, no, don't apologize, yo' were a complete gentleman," she said dreamily. Freya, I'm tired. I think I could sleep now. They were in her room at the hotel; it was dark, except for the light and breeze that leaked in around the curtains from the balcony. Odd, how a man's sweat smells heavier than a woman's. "I usually don't, not the first time with someone; always did enjoy givin' it as much as gettin'." A long yawn. "That's the closest I've come since India, anyways. Stopped tryin' altogether, fo' a whiles."

  He offered an arm, and she curled closer.

  " Want me to stay?" he asked.

  "Yes, thanks. Nevah did like bein' alone after." And you're actually quite sweet. Far too many Draka males acquired bad habits, brought up on serf wenches, but Teller hadn't even wanted to enter, until she told him to. Then again, there isn't much in the way of bedwench on a long cruise, is there? He had had some fascinating stories to tell, things that didn't get into the official records.

  Teller hesitated for a moment. "Mmmm… like to stay in contact?"

  Would I? she thought. The immediate impulse was to lash out, to defend her solitude. Pull yourself together, she scolded internally. Myfwany wouldn't want me to live a hermit. Wouldn't be good for the child either, the effects on me.

  "Yes, Teller, I think so. Understand, though, I'll be honest with yo', a few things yo'd better know. First, do things work out well, it'd be my first time keeping company with a man fo' mo' than a single time. I'm about sixty-forty the other way, I think."