Thousandstar

by Piers Anthony

  Then they rounded a turn, and she almost fell into her brother, embarrassingly. Her eyes snapped open, and she spied the head of the dragon, normally hidden beyond the mass of its body. Its breath was jetting up and back, forming diffuse vapor-cloudlets that were dispersed by the beat of its vestigial wings. The dragon was not really a magical creature, of course; it was a native animal that happened to resemble a creature of Solarian folklore, so naturally it had assumed the appropriate name.

  Yet perhaps, she thought, reconsidering, there was magic in it, for it was largely the mystique of the dragon that had created this pastoral reserve. Dragons required large foraging grounds; to intrude on this space with too much civilization would have been to destroy the unique creatures. Man had already committed genocide too many times, inadvertently; there had to be a halt. Star Capella was the fabled Eye of the Charioteer—and what was a chariot without a dragon to draw it? So it was a mark of System pride that the dragons flourish, and to ensure that, it had become necessary to preserve a major portion of the planet's original ecology. That was magic seldom seen in Sphere Sol!

  Now the site of Cyclone came into view, one of the fine old castles, dating from the age of Queen Bess. It had been decked out garishly with tattered storm-warning flags, as though the eye of a hurricane had passed and left its mark. The embrasures were crossed by crudely nailed boards, mock protection for nonexistent glass.

  "Cy and Cy have already had their ball," Jesse muttered. "Beyond a certain point, a motif becomes inane."

  Jessica agreed, as was her wont; she was as close to her half as it was possible for another person to be. She should have been identical, but for that matter of sex, and that was really the gift (curse?) of the laboratory. Genetic surgery, adding one X chromosome—that sort of thing had not been possible until recently, and was no simple procedure today. The waning fortune of this estate had been further impoverished to finance that operation.

  Knowing she had to compensate for the sex-change, she had tried very hard to emulate her brother, and so was in certain respects closer to him than normal male-male or female-female clones were to their respective halves. As it was, she was less enthusiastic about this party than her male half was. This was not merely because she was female, but because she was anonymously so. She could not let herself go; she had to guard her every reaction, lest she betray the secret of this cloning.

  She was used to this, of course. She had played this role from infancy. She could emulate her half's mannerisms with such precision that not even other clones could tell them apart. But most of that experience had been before the onset of sexual maturity.

  Now Jesse and Jessica were past puberty, and the secret had become enormously more challenging to keep. She was slightly shorter than he, now, though for a time she had been taller; special elevated shoes made up for that. She had developed breasts, now, and other distinctly distaff attributes, as that X chromosome did its relentless work. Jesse had playfully complimented her more than once in this connection. "Now I know how great I look in femme," he told her. "But if I were you, which I almost am, I'd strap my udders down with a belt and put a bra on my glutes..." She had hit him with a pillow, of course; that was protocol.

  They had had to move to specially designed clothing to retain their symmetry of appearance. She wore a body-sock girdle to flatten her breasts into a male-type chest; he wore padding to amplify his hips and buttocks. Now they both resembled a slightly overweight male, and neither liked this—but the secret had to be preserved until the pairing of clones was far enough along. If he failed to come to terms with a female, she would have to do so with a male. If they revealed this option prematurely, the other clones might force a clone-marriage on her, preventing him from carrying the estate name to his heir. Jessica wanted him to succeed; she liked none of the male clones available. She actually preferred more mature men, but the older clones were all committed. Thus she felt her best course was to retire into anonymity with some handsome commoner.

  The dragon steamed into the terminal and stopped. Attendants took over, leading it to pasture after the passengers disembarked. Dragons were omnivorous, preferring to chase down the fat monster caterpillars that stood the height of a man, but also grazing on the plentiful pine needles. They preferred the needles fallen, and aged somewhat, so the dragons never harmed the trees. Their teeth were phenomenal, for there was enormous difference between the soft flesh of caterpillars and the toughness of dried pine needles. It seemed the dragons had evolved as herbivores, but developed cutting teeth for combat purposes, then discovered that those specialized teeth could be adapted for masticating meat.

  "Snap to, Half," Jesse said brightly. A necessary caution; she was becoming moody and introspective these days, while he retained his surface awareness. Was this a sexual difference, or did it derive from her natural distaste for her masquerade?

  The entrance passage was decorated with artfully placed fallen timbers and floodwater stains. There was even an alluvial delta at one end. Then they had to climb through the wreckage of a ship to enter the main chamber.

  Jesse paused just before taking the final step. He grasped a splintered pole and used it to poke up into the ceiling. A plastic bucket of water tipped down, splashing on the floor. "Saw the stain from the last splash," he remarked wisely, completing his entrance, and got soaked by the second bucket of water.

  Jessica then stepped out. She had noted the splash too—such things were ubiquitous at clone balls—but still had residual caution. A soaking could have interfered with her camouflage clothing. Now, unfortunately, they were readily distinguishable: Jess-wet from Jess-dry. That could be awkward.

  There was a stiff breeze inside, consistent with the motif. Jesse shivered as his clothing evaporated, and hurried to the refreshment alcove for a mildly intoxicating Cyclomate beverage. Jessica had to accompany him and take one also, but she imbibed it far more cautiously. It was considered humorous to spike these drinks with hallucinogens or aphrodisiacs. She still felt nervous, afraid someone would see her flattened breasts sneaking some stray bulge through her masculine shirt.

  As Jesse consumed his drink he became more sociable. Jessica grew alarmed in corresponding proportion. Her situation forced her to be less and less like him, so that she could seem more and more like him. If he got careless, talked too much—

  They circulated, chatting with other clones. The older ones were married, each member accompanying his/her spouse; the child-level ones, already bored with the introductions, were playing noisy team-tag in the basement. Jesse and Jessica were among the select minority of adolescents; in self-defense they tended to associate with these.

  "Hey, Jess! Where were you, Screwball?" a husky male bawled, clapping Jessica jarringly on the back. Her drink slopped onto the floor: no loss. Her fear was growing, as she noted her brother's unconscious fidgeting, that the juice really had been spiked.

  "We were indisposed, Jules," she responded. Actually they had skipped the Scrub-clones' party, titled Screwball, because of the maturation problem. But too many skips would become suspicious, and the last thing they wanted was suspicion. Theoretically all the unmarried clones of any age were eagerly mixing, trying to line up the best marital alliances early. It was a bit like musical chairs, with the "music"—i.e., intense social and sexual interplay —continuous, and the competitors eager to be the first to drop out by pairing off. The ones who played too long, or not enough, might not make their necessary connections. So the Jess-clones had had to make Cyclone, ready or not. Jesse was all too ready; Jessica was not.

  Jules leaned down confidentially. "You missed some real screwing, Jess! But you can make it up this time, eh?" And he aimed another devastating smash at her back. She ducked neatly to avoid it, dinking him in the stomach with three stiffened fingers. He thought his pun about "making it up" was terribly clever; she thought it proved him a bore.

  "Eh," she agreed, emulating Jesse.

  Privately, she was disgusted. Sex was not only fai
rly open, it was expected. How else, the theory went, could the clones find suitable partners for marriage? Jesse was quite interested in the subject now; he hardly needed the stimulation of an aphrodisiac drink to get him going. Jessica, even had she been overtly female, would have preferred to wait. It was inherent in the Solarian species, she decided: it was the male's prerogative to seed whatever furrow he could find, and to do that all he needed was a wandering nature and a ready tool. It was the female's duty to bear and raise the young; for that she needed to stay at home and work. So the male craved sexual expression constantly, lest his tool sag from neglect, while the female could take it or leave it, as befitted the situation. She hoped the situation never befitted a marriage with Jules; she couldn't stand him.

  A well-developed pair sashayed up. "Jess! We've been looking for you!"

  "And we for you, Bessy!" Jesse responded, his eyes ogling the left Bess with more than mock appreciation. Jessica hurled another mental curse at that drink. The Bess clones took pride in their purported resemblance to their namesake ancestor, Good Queen Bess; possibly this was valid, assuming the Queen had been voluptuous and stupid. Jessica, her annoyance verging on wrath, painted an ogle similar to her brother's on her own face. The Bessies were only a few months older than the Jesses, but their female attributes had manifested explosively. They would never be able to pass for males!

  The Bessies took a deep tandem breath, causing their four mammaries to overflow their costumes dangerously. "Shall we try it out?" And they winked in broad unison, though that was hardly necessary.

  Jessica wondered: what was it that she had been thinking about the woman's role? The Bessies were coming on with disgusting directness. And Jesse, damn him, was raptly interested! She nudged him warningly with her elbow, but he was so absorbed by the quadruple revelation that he ignored her. He was male, therefore he chose a woman by shape, not intellect or personality. By shape! How foolish was it possible to get?

  The Bessies took firm hold of the Jesses and propelled them toward the private rooms. Jessica could not resist effectively, since Jesse was eager enough to go. But the thing was impossible!

  'What is impossible? Sexual play is natural.'

  "Not between females!" Jessica retorted.

  "Beg pardon?" Bessy inquired, already half disrobed. Jesse and the other Bessy had vanished to the adjacent chamber.

  Even had it not been impossible, it would have been undesirable. Bessy was a cow, huge of haunch and udder (exactly as Jesse liked to pretend his sister was; she was definitely not!), scant of intellect, basic of instinct. At least Jesse should have evinced some taste in bovines!

  Shape. It was so damned stupid! As well to judge a drink by the contour of its container.

  'Yes. Taste is the only criterion—'

  "Oh, shut up!" she snapped.

  "But I wasn't speaking," Bessy protested, hurt.

  "Uh, I mean shut off the light." Jessica lurched to wave her hand across the illumination control, and the light faded.

  "Oh, in the dark," Bessy cried. "How quaint!"

  "Yes. It's the newest fashion," Jessica said. "Give me a moment to get ready." She moved silently to the door between rooms. It was a privacy curtain, fortunately: opaque, but of no substance. She stepped through.

  And was momentarily blinded by the light. Jesse, unclothed, was just rising from his willing conquest. That drink had given him jet propulsion!

  'Your kind employs jets?'

  "In a manner of speaking," she answered, this time silently. "The male's role—oh, never mind!"

  'And the female remains to care for the offspring. This is a desirable procedure.'

  "That depends." Jessica closed out the nagging thoughts and returned to her dream, though it horrified her.

  Bessy's eyes were closed, her body open. Jessica suppressed another surge of revulsion. She understood, to a certain extent, the male imperative; sex was an inherent hunger that he sought to gratify. But this type of female, who surely had no similar incentive—why was she so eager for it? It had to be a perverse pride of conquest: she bolstered her undeserving ego by proving that men found her desirable. But she wasn't desirable; she was a great mass of incipiently sagging flesh. A sow.

  Jesse spied Jessica, his brows lifting questioningly, but almost immediately he understood. The abatement of his lust allowed his mind to function again, making him aware of her predicament. He rose from Bessy, gestured Jessica to take his place, picked up his clothes and tiptoed through the curtain to join the other Bessy. How he would perform there Jessica could not say; presumably he would stall until he was able to rise again to the occasion. Served him right.

  Jessica sat beside Bessy, afraid to arouse suspicion by turning off this light. She took her clothing partly off, to look as if it had been hastily donned, and waited.

  Bessy stirred, eyes still closed. "Am I a good lay, Jess?"

  Jessica experienced the mental image of a monstrous laser beam destroying the whole castle. But her voice was controlled, artificially sincere. "As good as any I've had," she replied, biting her lip. Another wash of furious frustration and jealousy suffused her—and the very existence of that reaction made her more angry yet. No, she didn't want to be like Bessy—did she? "How am I as a stud?"

  "Oh, the best, the best! Sort of quick, though." Bessy opened her eyes. "How did you get dressed so soon?"

  "Part of the art," Jessica said with assumed smugness. "If you'd kept your eyes closed another moment, I'd have tucked in my shirt before you ever noticed." She did so now.

  "Some trick! You dress almost as fast as you perform." Bessy stretched languorously. "If you were to marry me, it would be like this every day. More often if you wanted."

  Age fifteen, so hot to get married to a clone! The artifice was so obvious it was painful. "If I were to marry you, I couldn't have it with all the other girls anymore," Jessica said with simulated regret. When she got home, she intended to wash her mouth out with detergent.

  Bessy sighed. Her wit was not sufficient to cope with that rejoinder. Her expertise hardly extended beyond disrobing and spreading her legs. She closed her eyes again. "Stroke me again, Jess, as you did before."

  Jessica gritted her teeth. How far did she have to carry this infernal charade? She knew where her half would have stroked this bovine. He would have milked her.

  Jessica closed her fist, aiming it—no. This was a temptation to which she could not afford to yield, lest she betray her affinity. For Jessica was really another female mammal.

  She put out her hand. In her imagination it held a butcher's knife. Let me carve you, cowpig! From here a fine juicy steak; from there a fat roast...

  "Oh, Jess, you really know how to do it," Bessy said.

  Jessica wrenched her eyes open from the nightmare— and found she had no eyes. She screamed—and had no voice. She had only touch and taste—mainly the latter.

  "Will you stop it?" Heem demanded. "You are burning out my nerves!"

  The horror subsided slowly. 'I was dreaming, reliving—'

  "I perceived, sharing your horror. Impersonating the alternate sex—I comprehend how revolting that would be, though it surely prepared you for your cross-sexual transfer. But to imagine carving eating-chunks from the flesh of a sapient—"

  'Bessy was not very sapient.'

  "But the most remarkable thing—I almost thought I could see."

  'Of course you can see—when you're snooping on my dream! Because my mind is oriented on seeing and hearing, and the impulses translate.'

  "Horrible," Heem jetted.

  'You, blind and deaf, talk of horror? You, who diverted this ship into—' But she did not voice the concept.

  "You are aware of my rationale," he reminded her. "Better to die cleanly and honorably in space, than in confinement."

  'What could be more comforting than a black hole?' The scream was forming again, causing him to wince internally. She had a considerable weapon, there!

  "A thorough and honorable death
is not confining," he informed her. "It is an excellent liberation from an intolerable situation."

  They oriented their attention on the Hole ahead. The Hole itself was blank to the ship's instrumentation, because it was what it was; but there were considerable phenomena at its fringe that were perceptible.

  'I don't resign myself to this at all, you know,' Jessica said tersely, and indeed there was an undercurrent of purpose in her being that was alarming in its strength. 'There has to be some escape. If only I could see it!' She considered in her brief, Solarian, feminine way. 'Heem, you have to develop sight. That's all there is to it. I absolutely refuse to die blind. I want to see what I'm getting into.'

  "I am having difficulty making you understand that I have no perception of sight. In this competition, only Erbs see. Squams hear and HydrOs taste."

  'Well, Solarians see, hear, and taste. And feel. We have senses bristling out all over! And right now I want to see.'

  "It is impossible!"

  'I'll scream!'

  The ultimate argument! "There are some things, like sexual identity and fundamental perception, that simply cannot be changed. You may scream the nerves right out of my body, but you can't make me see. Why not at least permit us to die in dignity?"

  She assumed a pose of reasonableness, but that chill current remained beneath. 'It is possible to alter sexual identity, because I am an example. It should be possible to adapt the informational channels and impulses to a new configuration. The brain does it. All it needs is discipline. If you work with me, I should be able to see— and so should you. We're doing it already some in our dreams. If we work at it—'