The Domination

Chapter Fifteen

SPIN HABITAT SEVEN, CENTRAL BELT

BETWEEN THE ORBITS OF MARS AND JUPITER

JANUARY 4, 1983

Habitat Seven was the latest and largest of the Project’s constructs, half a kilometer across and two long; nickel-iron was cheap, and easy to work with big enough mirrors. Now the former lump of metal-rich rock was a spinning tube, closed at either end, with a glowing cylinder of woven glass filament running down its center. There was atmosphere inside, and part of the inner surface had already been transformed; gravity was .5 G, as much as was practical or necessary. Grass grew in squares of nutrient-rich dust, and hopeful flowers. Individual houses were going up, foamed rock poured into molds; there were dozens of different floor plans.

“Goddamn circus,” Frederick Lefarge said. “We’re running this like the bloody Los Alamos bomb project, back in the ’40s. Everything and the kitchen sink.”

“Not really,” the man beside him on the polished-slag bench said. “In the long run, the actual construction will go faster if we spend the time to get the infrastructure in place.” A sigh. “And even the . . . fourth Project will require a good deal of preliminary groundwork. We are going to miss Dr. Takashi very badly, as the years go by. I am more for the crystals and wafers and wires, me; he was the instruction set genius.”

“Yes.” He looked aside at Professor Pedro de Ribeiro: a vigorous-looking forty-five, with the usual Imperial Brazilian goatee in pepper-and-salt and an impeccable white linen suit; the cane and gloves were, the American thought, a little much. Very competent man, but . . . “I’d have thought that was less so for the final Project than for the rest of the New America enterprises. It’s basically a set of compinstructions, isn’t it?”

“Não.” De Ribeiro’s English was impeccable, but it slipped now and then. “I have been thinking much on this matter, since I was contacted . . . and have concluded that we must almost reinvent the art of information systems here, if we are to accomplish what we wish.” He rested his hands on the silver head of his cane and leaned forward. “Abandon our assumption that because we have always done things one way, that is the inevitable path. Another legacy of the struggle with the Domination . . . Tell me, Señor Lieutenant Colonel, what would you say to the idea of writing compinstruction procedures on a perscomp?”

Lefarge blinked, taken aback. “That’s . . . well, it would be like using a shovel as a machine tool, wouldn’t it?”

“Bim, but only because we have made it so.” He tapped the ferrule of the cane on the ground. “Perhaps computers could only have started as they did, large machines used for cryptography, for the handling of statistics. Precious assets, jealously guarded. They have grown immensely faster, immensely more capable, even rather smaller—that first all-transistor model in 1942 was the size of a house!—but not different in nature.”

“Well, how could they be?”

“For example . . . it is certainly technically possible to build central processing units small enough to power a perscomp. Yes, yes, quite difficult, but the micromachining processes we have developed for other purposes would do . . . if there were a strong development incentive. But our computers were always, hmm, how shall I say, limited in access. Perscomps were developed from the other end up, from the machinery intended to run machine tools, simulations, deal with the real world; only their instruction storage and the interfacers are digital, and the rest is analog. We build them for a range of specific uses, and then develop the instruction sets on larger machines; they are loaded into the smaller in cartridges. Complicated machines such as space warcraft have a maze of subsystems like that, linked to a central brain.”

Wild speculation combined with restatement of the obvious, Lefarge thought. Then: No, wait a minute. We’ve been too narrowly focused on immediate problems. The Project’s going to need real ingenuity, not just engineering. “But if we’d gone the other way . . . Jesus, Doctor, it’d be a security nightmare! Even as it is, we have to throw dozens of people in the slammer every year for illegal comping. There might be . . . oh, thousands of amateurs out there screwing around with vital instruction sets. The Draka could scoop it up off the market! Then think of the problems if you could copy embedded corepaths and instruction sets over the wires between perscomps. Lord . . . ”

The Brazilian nodded. “Exactly! And who would find it more difficult to adjust to such a world, us or them? We must be radical, on our Project. That is an example.”

He laughed as the younger man rocked under the question’s impact. “Also, one of the reasons I have come here. Here we will be relatively free of the security restrictions—if only because we are already imprisoned, in a sense! For the first time, a completely free exchange of ideas and data.”

Another tap at the metallic pebbles of the walkway. “The thing we wish to devise, it must be more than a set of hidden compinstructions. It must be a self-replicating, self-adjusting pattern of information, a . . . a virus, if you will. One able to overcome all the safeguards the Draka place on their machines; the redundant systems, the physical blocks, the many interfaces. We will have to reinvent many aspects of our art. Takashi agreed with me; it is better to start with a majority of younger men . . . and women, to be sure—ones free of the rather bureaucratized, specialized approach of other research institutes. And less dominated by us old men, who are so sure what is possible and what impossible! The New America, the starship, that is engineering. Wonderful engineering, many tests, unfamiliar challenges, but development work. In our Project, we must learn new ways to think. Ah, the señora, your wife.”

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 Fred’s 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 bellyjets to lose 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 del Chianti 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 you 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 going, Jolene?” she continued, stepping to the serf’s 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 . . . you . . . 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 newcomers, 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, you 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 you 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 serf’s.

How swiftly they grow, Yolande thought. Her daughter reached forward and hugged the American.

“Thank you, Tantie-ma Marya,” she said earnestly. “I didn’t realize how hard you worked, havin’ me. Thank you.”

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 toward 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.”