She was walking now, with care and in this half-gravity. The forgetfulness was diminishing, and the crying fits; there would be no need for more transplants. The doctors were quite pleased… Something squeezed inside his gut, as he looked at her. She looked… a well-preserved forty, and moved with slow, painful care. Her face had filled out, a little, and she had gained back some of the weight, if not the muscle tone. The hair was cropped close, and only half gray; her teeth were the too-even white of implanted synthetic. Professor de Ribeiro rose and bowed over her hand.
"A salute to one so lovely and so brave," he said formally, bowing farewell to them both.
Cindy sank down with a sigh, and leaned her head against his shoulder. He put his arm around hers, feeling the slight tremor of exhaustion.
"Should you be up, honey?" he asked gently.
"I'll never get any better if I don't push it a little. I was with the girls," she said. "God, they're doing great, darling. Just… I get so tired all the time." He looked down, and saw that slow tears were leaking from under closed lids, made wordless sounds of comfort. "And I feel so old, and useless and ugly."
"You're the most beautiful thing in the solar system, Cindy," he said with utter sincerity. "I've never doubted it for a single instant."
She sighed again. "I like the professor. He's on whatever-it-is that's being hidden behind the New America, isn't he?"
Cindy laughed quietly, without stirring, as he tried to conceal his start of alarm. "Don't worry, sweetheart, I haven't been steaming open your letters… Honestly, I'm sick, not stupid. And I've had plenty of time to think, and anyway, we're all here for the duration. I do like the professor; he reminds me of Dr. Takashi—"
Suddenly she began to shake, and he turned to hold her in the circle of his arms. "Oh God, oh God, the end of his hand was gone and, and, uhhh—"
"Shhh, shhh," he said. "I'm here, honey, I'll always be here. I'll never let them hurt you again. Never again." The taste of helplessness was in his mouth, like burning ash.
At last she was still again. "Sorry. Sorry to be such a… baby," she said, gripping the breast of his uniform.
"God, honey, you're stronger than I could ever be."
She shook her head. "I get angry, and then I start feeling so sorry for everyone." A long pause. "Even her."
"Now, that's going a bit too far," he said, trying for humor. Funny, hatred is actually a cold feeling. Like an old-fashioned injection at the dentist's.
"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 belly-jets to loose 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 Chiante 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 yo' 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 goin', Jolene?" she continued, stepping to the serfs 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… yo'… 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 newcome
rs, 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, yo' 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 yo' 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?"
The girl nodded, then looked aside where Jolene was shuddering and wincing as she worked to expel the afterbirth. "That looks like it really hurts, doin' all that. I'll never have to do that, will I, ma?"
Yolande spared a hard glance at Marya; what had the wench been saying to the child?
"No, of course not," she said to her daughter.
"No, Missy Gwen," Marya said, in her usual cool tone. "Your serf brooders will bear your eggs for you, just like this."
Gwen nodded, and Yolande rose and bent over Jolene. The serf was still panting, exhausted. She flinched slightly as the attendants cleaned her, slid a fresh sheet beneath her and wiped away the sweat before drawing up a coverlet and setting the controls to convert the birthing table into a bed; she would be moved later. Still, she smiled broadly as Yolande brought the small bundle near, reaching out her arms. "Can I?" she said.
"Of course," her owner replied, laying the infant gently on her abdomen. Yolande kissed her brow, then looked up to meet Gwen's eyes. "Remember, we owe Jolene a lot, daughter. We have to look after her always."
Gwen nodded solemnly, then gave her mother's hand a squeeze before she ran over to Marya; standing, her head was nearly level with the seated serfs.
How swiftly they grow, Yolande thought. Her daughter reached forward and hugged the American.
"Thank yo', Tantie-ma Marya," she said earnestly. "I didn't realize how hard yo' worked, havin' me. Thank yo'."
Marya returned the embrace; the other Draka were smiling at the entirely proper show of sentiment. The serf stroked the red head resting on her bosom.
"You are welcome, Missy Gwen," she said. Then looked up, met Yolande's gaze, looked down at the child. "You are welcome."
Yolande felt a slight chill, then cast it aside. Hearing things, she decided, looking down at her son. A rush of warmth spread up from belly to throat, so overwhelming that her head swam with it. She was conscious of her family gathering around her, her father and mother's arms over her shoulders. John was popping a champagne bottle in the background, and someone pushed a glass into her hand. She sipped without tasting, watching the baby lying quietly with the dozing serf. Wondering, she stroked his cheek, and his head turned towards the touch, mouth working. "Why, he's an eager little one," Jolene said. "Mistis, help me?"
Yolande pulled down the sheet to bare the swollen breasts, and curled the infant into the curve of her arm so that he could take the nipple. He sucked eagerly, and Jolene closed her eyes with a sigh. "They been so sore an' tender. That feels good."
There was more quiet conversation as the infant nursed, and then the midwife cleared her throat. "Mastahs, Mistis', this not a good place for a party. An' this wench and the bambino, they needa their rest."
Thomas Ingolfsson rumbled a laugh. "True enough. Out, my children."
"… so they sent out Babur, Timur, and Mongke fo' the final escort," Yolande was saying, some hours later. "The orbit's still eccentric enough that the damn thing swings outside Luna, so until we get it corrected, no sense in temptin' the Yankees to try anythin'."
"Think they might try anythin' closer?" her brother said sharply.
They were taking late lunch in the solarium. Yolande looked out through the clear crystal onto the winter gardens and the misty sere-and-green of a Tuscan winter. Rain had moved in, and falling curtains of silver hid the hills and the twisted black shapes of the vines. Inside there was a mild warmth, the tinkle of a rock-fountain, smells of coffee and seafood and fresh breads. Meditatively, she chewed another mouthful of shrimp.
"No," she answered, after a pause for thought. "There's too much at stake in their day-to-day lives that rests on what comes from near-Earth space. Too many vested interests would scream at the thought of disruption. Gwen, don't play with yo' food, if yo' goin' to sit at table with adults." John and Mandy's eldest boy Eric was down at the junior's end of the table too, looking up from his plate occasionally with amusing hero-worship in his eyes; the other Draka children of the household were too young, and were off behind a screen of vines with their nurses.
"Yes, ma," Gwen replied. Slightly sulky, which was more like her; the birth had disturbed her a little. Only to be expected, but not to be cosseted. It was a natural enough process, after all.
Yolande sighed. "Well, it all came off reasonably well… except I hate havin' losses in my command. Score several points fo' us. That asteroid goin' to be real helpful, next five years or so. Still, I'm havin' doubts about whether we'll ever make a serious impact on the Alliance with this denarius-at-a-time policy. What the alternative is, I don't rightly know. Maybe they'll enlighten me at the War College."
"Mo' like to give yo' a severe case of paramathematical analytical holistic paralysis," her brother said lightly. "You'll be so aware of the consequences yo'll never do a damn thing again."
Johanna raised her wineglass. "A toast. To my grandson Nicholas Ingolfsson; may he serve the State and the Race as heroically as my daughter!"
There were laughter and cheers. Yolande smiled, but reached out and touched the glass. "The wish is appreciated, mother," she said seriously. "But no. I've got a different toast." She raised her own glass. "To Gwen and Nikki's future; by the time they're grown, may the Race rule from Sol to the Oort Clouds, unopposed!"
They clinked glasses.
Gwen's voice cut in. "But, ma… then who would I have to fight?" She sounded worried.
"Gwen, there's always space, an' that's enemy enough fo' all." A smile. "An' the telescopes say most stars like ours have planets, with air we can breathe. That means life, maybe with hands and minds. Yo' goin' to live a long, long time, honeyhunch, hundreds of years. Yo' and Eric can go out to the stars an' conquer the aliens." Who will hopefully have nothing better than spears, she thought. "We've never gotten a message, not for all our looking, and the Yankees.".
Eric was gazing at her with a frown of serious thought. "The Yankees," he began, "they killed Aunt Myfwany." So she had always been called in this household, as courtesy to Yolande. "They're really, really bad. I want to kill them all." Gwen nodded vehemently.
Mandy and John turned to quell their son, but Yolande raised a hand. "Ah," she said, closing her eyes for a moment. "Eric, Gwen, thank yo' both." They were getting to the age of reason, and should be exposed to as much serious thought as they could
handle. "But—remember this. When y'all are grown, yo' may have to kill to live. Remember, killin'—killin' people, even if they're not of the Race—it's not a good thing. We do it because we must, not because we hate, or because we like it. Eric, yo' don't hate yo' Tantie-ma Delores, do yo'?"
The boy shook his head.
"But she's Italian, and her people fought yo' grandma and grandpa. Gwen, Jolene's people fought us, long ago. Yo' Tantie-Ma is… was a Yankee. Don't want to kill her, eh?"
"Oh, no, ma. I love Marya."
"So yo' should, punkin. See, we're the Race, the Draka, it's our place to rule, an' fo' others to serve us and work fo' us. All this fightin' and killin', it's just because the wild ones don't know it yet. Once they've been brought under us and we've taught them that, we should protect them and treat them as gentle as we can, so they can be happy in their service." Yolande smiled indulgently as she saw the children's brows knitted in thought.
"And with that, maybe yo' should both go eat dessert at the children's table," Mandy said. Eric and Gwen slid from their chairs and came to give their parents the kiss of courtesy. Eating with the grownups was an honor but a strain as well, and less fun than joining their cousins and siblings.
"Gwen," Yolande whispered into her daughter's ear. "Did yo' like Archona? Quietly, now."
"Yes, ma, lots," the girl whispered back, her eyes glistening with excitement. "There was all sorts of things to do. Can we go again?"
"Well, punkin, don't tell anyone yet, but we're going to live there, yo' and yo' new brother and I, and I'll be home a lot more." While I'm chained to a desk learning how at be a Staffer. "And don't worry, yo' can still go to school in Baiae, and visit here lots." It was only a two-hour trip these days, anyway. "Now scoot!"
"Wisdom," her father said, when the children had gone. "Though there was damn-all fightin' here in Italy, at least." A laugh. "Bit of partisan trouble afterwards, though. Yo'd be too young to remember. Mo' like huntin' than combat, just a little mo' dangerous game."