“What do you mean?” Sagan said.
“We know there are three kinds of human,” Cainen said, and held up his fingers, so much longer and more articulated than human fingers, to count off the variations. “There are the unmodified humans, who are the ones who colonize planets. Those come in varying shapes and sizes and colors—good genetic diversity there. The second group is the largest part of your soldier caste. These also vary in size and shape, but to a far lesser extent, and they’re all the same color: green. We know that these soldiers aren’t in their original bodies—their consciousness is transferred from bodies of older members of your species to these stronger, healthier bodies. These bodies are extensively genetically altered, so much that they can’t breed, either between themselves or with unmodified humans. But they’re still recognizably human, particularly the brain matter.
“But the third group,” Cainen said, and leaned back. “We hear stories, Lieutenant Sagan.”
“What do you hear?” Sagan said.
“That they are created from the dead,” Cainen said. “That the human germ plasm of the dead is mixed and remixed with the genetics of other species to see what will arise. That some of them don’t even resemble humans, as they recognize themselves. That they are born as adults, with skills and ability, but no memory. And not only no memory. No self. No morality. No restraint. No—” He paused, as if looking for the right word. “No humanity,” he said, finally. “As you would put it. Child warriors, in grown bodies. Abominations. Monsters. Tools your Colonial Union uses for the missions they can not or will not offer to soldiers who have life experience and a moral self, or who might fear for their soul in this world or the next.”
“A scientist concerned about souls,” Sagan said. “That’s not very pragmatic.”
“I am a scientist, but I am also Rraey,” Cainen said. “I know I have a soul, and I tend to it. Do you have a soul, Lieutenant Sagan?”
“Not that I know of, Administrator Cainen,” Sagan said. “They are hard to quantify.”
“So you are the third kind of human,” Cainen said.
“I am,” Sagan said.
“Built from the flesh of the dead,” Cainen said.
“From her genes,” Sagan said. “Not her flesh.”
“Genes build the flesh, Lieutenant. Genes dream the flesh, wherein the soul resides,” Cainen said.
“Now you’re a poet,” Sagan said.
“I’m quoting,” Cainen said. “One of our philosophers. Who was also a scientist. You wouldn’t know her. May I ask how old you are?”
“I’m seven, almost eight,” Sagan said. “About four and a half of your hked.”
“So young,” Cainen said. “Rraey of your age have barely started their educations. I’m more than ten times your age, Lieutenant.”
“And yet, here we both are,” Sagan said.
“Here we are,” Cainen agreed. “I wish we had met under other circumstances, Lieutenant. I would very much like to study you.”
“I don’t know how to respond to that,” Sagan said. “‘Thank you’ doesn’t seem appropriate, considering what being studied by you would probably mean.”
“You could be kept alive,” Cainen said.
“Oh, joy,” Sagan said. “But you might get your wish, after a fashion. You must know by now that you are a prisoner—for real this time, and you will be for the rest of your life.”
“I figured that out when you started telling me things I could report back to my government,” Cainen said. “Like the rock trick. Although I assumed you were going to kill me.”
“We humans are a pragmatic people, Administrator Cainen,” Sagan said. “You have knowledge we can use, and if you were willing to be cooperative, there’s no reason you couldn’t continue your study of human genetics and brains. Just for us instead of for the Rraey.”
“All I would have to do is betray my people,” Cainen said.
“There is that,” Sagan allowed.
“I think I would rather die first,” Cainen said.
“With all due respect, Administrator, if you truly believed that, you probably wouldn’t have shot that Eneshan who was trying to kill you earlier today,” Sagan said. “I think you want to live.”
“You may be right,” Cainen said. “But whether you are right or not, child, I am done talking to you now. I’ve told you everything I’m going to tell you of my own free will.”
Sagan smiled at Cainen. “Administrator, do you know what humans and Rraey have in common?”
“We have a number of things in common,” Cainen said. “Pick one.”
“Genetics,” Sagan said. “I don’t need to tell you that human genetic sequencing and Rraey genetic sequencing are substantially different in the details. But on the macro level we share certain similarities, including the fact that we receive one set of genes from one parent and the other from the other. Two-parent sexual reproduction.”
“Standard sexual reproduction among sexually reproducing species,” Cainen said. “Some species need three or even four parents, but not many. It’s too inefficient.”
“No doubt,” Sagan said. “Administrator, have you heard of Fronig’s Syndrome?”
“It’s a rare genetic disease among the Rraey,” Cainen said. “Very rare.”
“From what I understand of it, the disease is caused because of deficiencies in two unrelated gene sets,” Sagan said. “One gene set regulates the development of nerve cells, and specifically of an electrically-insulating sheath around them. The second gene set regulates the organ that produces the Rraey analog for what humans call lymph. It does some of the same things, and does other things differently. In humans lymph is somewhat electrically conductive, but in the Rraey this liquid is electrically insulating. From what we know of Rraey physiology this electrically insulating quality of your lymph usually serves no particular benefit or detriment, just as the electrically conductive nature of human lymph is neither a plus or minus—it’s just there.”
“Yes,” Cainen said.
“But for Rraey who are unlucky enough to have two broken nerve development genes, this electrical insulation is beneficial,” Sagan said. “This fluid bathes the interstitial area surrounding Rraey cells, including nerve cells. This keeps the nerve’s electrical signals from going astray. What’s interesting about Rraey lymph is that its composition is controlled hormonally, and that a slight change in the hormonal signal will change it from electrically insulating to electrically conductive. Again, for most Rraey, this is neither here nor there. But for those who code for exposed nerve cells—”
“—it causes seizures and convulsions and then death as their nerve signals leak out into their bodies,” Cainen said. “Its fatality is why it’s so rare. Individuals who code for electrically-conductive lymph and exposed nerves die during gestation, usually after the cells first begin to differentiate and the syndrome manifests.”
“But there’s also adult onset Fronig’s,” Sagan said. “The genes code to change the hormonal signal later, in early adulthood. Which is late enough for reproduction to happen and the gene to be passed on. But it also takes two faulty genes to be expressed.”
“Yes, of course,” Cainen said. “That’s another reason why Fronig’s is so rare; it’s not often that an individual will receive two sets of faulty nerve genes and two sets of genes that cause later-life hormonal changes in their lymph organ. Tell me where this is going.”
“Administrator, the genetic sample from you when you came on board shows that you code for faulty nerves,” Sagan said.
“But I don’t code for hormonal changes,” Cainen said. “Otherwise I’d be dead already. Fronig’s expresses in early adulthood.”
“This is true,” Sagan said. “But one can also induce hormonal changes by killing off certain cell bundles within the Rraey lymph organ. Kill off enough of the bundles that generate the correct hormone, and you can still produce lymph. It will simply have different properties. Fatal properties, in your case. One can do it ch
emically.”
Cainen’s attention was drawn to the syringe that had been lying on the table through the entire conversation. “And that’s the chemical that can do it, I suppose,” Cainen said.
“That’s the antidote,” Sagan said.
Jane Sagan found Administrator Cainen Suen Su admirable in his way; he didn’t crack easily. He suffered through several hours as his lymphatic organ gradually replaced the lymph in his body with the new, altered fluid, twitching and seizing as concentrations of the electrically-conductive lymph triggered nerve misfires randomly through his body, and the overall conductivity of his entire system heightened with each passing minute. If he hadn’t cracked when he did, it was very likely that he wouldn’t have been able to tell them that he wanted to talk.
But crack he did, and begged for the antidote. In the end, he wanted to live. Sagan administered the antidote herself (not really an antidote, as those dead cell bundles were dead forever; he’d have to receive daily shots of the stuff for the rest of his life). As the antidote coursed through Cainen’s body, Sagan learned of a brewing war against humanity, and a blueprint for the subjugation and eradication of her entire species. A genocide planned in great detail, based on the heretofore unheard of cooperation of three races.
And one human.
TWO
Colonel James Robbins gazed down at the rotted, exhumed body on the morgue slab for a minute, taking in the decay of the body from more than one year under the dirt. He noted the ruined skull, fatally misshaped by the shotgun blast that carried away its top third, along with the life of its owner, the man who might have betrayed humanity to three alien races. Then he looked up at Captain Winters, Phoenix Station’s medical examiner.
“Tell me this is Dr. Boutin’s body,” Colonel Robbins said.
“Well, it is,” said Winters. “And yet it’s not.”
“You know, Ted, that’s exactly the sort of qualified statement that’s going to get my ass reamed when I report to General Mattson,” Colonel Robbins said. “I don’t suppose you’d like to be more forthcoming.”
“Sorry, Jim,” Captain Winters said, and pointed to the corpse on the table. “Genetically speaking, that’s your man,” Winters said. “Dr. Boutin was a colonist, which meant he’s never been swapped into a military body. This means that his body has all his original DNA. I did the standard genetics testing. This body has Boutin’s DNA—and just for fun I did a mitochondrial RNA test as well. That matched too.”
“So what’s the problem?” Robbins asked.
“The problem is with bone growth,” Winters said. “In the real universe, human bone growth fluctuates based on environmental factors, like nutrition or exercise. If you spend time on a high-gravity world and then move to one with lower gravity, that’s going to influence how your bones grow. If you break a bone, that’s going to show up too. Your entire life history shows up in bone development.”
Winters reached over and picked up part of the corpse’s left leg, which had been sheared from the rest of the body, and pointed to the cross-section of the femur visible there. “This body’s bone development is exceptionally regular. There’s no record of environmental or accidental events on its development, just a pattern of bone growth consistent with excellent nutrition and low stress.”
“Boutin was from Phoenix,” Robbins said. “It’s been colonized for two hundred years. It’s not like he grew up on a backwater colony where they’re struggling to feed and protect themselves.”
“Maybe not, but it still doesn’t match up,” Winters said. “You can live in the most civilized place in human space and still fall down a flight of stairs or break a bone playing sports. It’s possible that you can get through life without even a greenstick fracture, but do you know anyone who’s done it?” Robbins shook his head. “This guy did. But actually he didn’t, since his medical records show he broke his leg, this leg”—Winters shook the chunk of leg—“when he was sixteen. Skiing accident. Collided with a boulder and broke his femur and his tibia. The record of that isn’t here.”
“I hear medical technology is good these days,” Robbins said.
“It is excellent, thank you very much,” Winters said. “But it’s not magic. You don’t snap a femur and not leave a mark. And even getting through life without breaking a bone doesn’t explain the consistently regular bone development. The only way you’re going to get this sort of bone development is if it develops without environmental stress of any kind. Boutin would have had to live his life in a box.”
“Or a cloning crèche,” Robbins said.
“Or a cloning crèche,” Winters agreed. “The other possible explanation is that your friend here had his leg amputated at some point and had a new one grown, but I checked his records; that didn’t happen. But just to be sure I took bone samples from his ribs, his pelvis, his arm and his skull—the undamaged portion, anyway. All these samples showed unnaturally consistent, regular bone growth. You’ve got yourself a cloned body here, Jim.”
“Then Charles Boutin is still alive,” Robbins said.
“That I don’t know,” Winters said. “But this isn’t him. The only good news here is that by all physical indications, this clone was vatted right up until just before it died. It’s extremely unlikely it was ever awake, or even if it was that it was conscious and aware. Imagine waking up and finding your first and last view of the world was a shotgun barrel. That’d be a hell of a life.”
“So if Boutin’s still alive, he’s also a murderer,” Robbins said.
Winters shrugged and set down the leg. “You tell me, Jim,” he said. “The Colonial Defense Forces make bodies all time—we create modified superbodies to give to our new recruits, and then when their service is through we give them new normal bodies cloned from their original DNA. Do those bodies really have rights before we put consciousness into them? Each time we transfer their consciousness, we leave a body behind—a body that used to have a mind. Do those bodies have rights? If they do, we’re all in trouble, because we dispose of them pretty damn quick. Do you know what we do with all those used bodies, Jim?”
“I don’t,” Robbins admitted.
“We mulch them,” Winters said. “There are too many to bury. So we grind them up, sterilize the remains and turn them into plant fertilizer. Then we send the fertilizer to new colonies. Helps to acclimate the soil to the crops humans plant. You could say our new colonies live off the bodies of the dead. Only they’re not really the bodies of the dead. They’re just the cast-off bodies of the living. The only time we actually bury a body is when a mind dies inside of it.”
“Think about taking some time off, Ted,” Robbins said. “Your job is making you morbid.”
“It’s not the job that makes me morbid,” Winters said, and pointed to the remains of not–Charles Boutin. “What do you want me to do with this?”
“I want you to have it reinterred,” Robbins said.
“But it’s not Charles Boutin,” Winters said.
“No, it’s not,” Robbins agreed. “But if Charles Boutin is still alive, I don’t want him to know we know that.” He looked back at the body on the slab. “And whether this body knew what was happening to it or not, it deserved better than what it got. A burial is the least we can do.”
“Goddamn Charles Boutin,” General Greg Mattson said, and kicked up his feet on his desk.
Colonel Robbins stood at the other side of the desk and said nothing. General Mattson disconcerted him, as he always had. Mattson had been the head of the Colonial Defense Forces Military Research arm for almost thirty years, but like all CDF military personnel had a military issued body that resisted aging; he looked—as did all CDF personnel—no more than twenty-five years old. Colonel Robbins was of the opinion that as people advanced in rank through the CDF they should be made to appear to age slightly; a general who looked twenty-five years old lacked a certain gravitas.
Robbins briefly imagined Mattson appearing to be his true age, which had to be somewhere in the vici
nity of 125 years old; his mind’s eye saw something like a scrotal wrinkle in a uniform. This would be amusing to Robbins, save for the fact that at ninety years of age himself, he wouldn’t look all that much better.
Then there was the matter of the other general in the room, who if his body showed his real age would almost certainly look younger than he already did. Special Forces disconcerted Robbins even more than regular CDF. There was something not quite right about people being three years old, fully grown and totally lethal.
Not that this general was three. He was probably a teenager.
“So our Rraey friend told us the truth,” General Szilard said, from his own seat in front of the desk. “Your former head of consciousness research is still alive.”
“Blowing the head off his own clone, now, that was a nice touch,” General Mattson said, sarcasm dripping out his voice. “Those poor bastards were picking brains out of the lab equipment for a week afterward.” He glanced up at Robbins. “Do we know how he did that? Grow a clone? That’s something you shouldn’t be able to do without someone noticing. He couldn’t have just whipped one up in the closet.”
“As near as we can tell, he introduced code into the clone vat monitoring software,” Robbins said. “Made it look like one of the clone vats was out of service to the monitors. It was taken out to be serviced; Boutin had it decommissioned, and then put it in his private lab storage area and ran it off its own server and power supply. The server wasn’t hooked into the system and the vat was decommissioned, and only Boutin had access to the storage area.”
“So he did whip one up in the closet,” Mattson said. “That little fucker.”
“You must have had access to the storage area after he was presumed dead,” Szilard said. “Are you saying that no one thought it odd he had a clone vat in storage?”
Robbins opened his mouth but Mattson answered. “If he was a good research head—and he was—he’d have a lot of decommissioned and surplus equipment in storage, in order to tinker and optimize it without interfering with equipment that we were actually using. And I would assume that when we got to the vat it was drained and sterilized and disconnected from the server and the power supply.”