He became aware of Kate standing by his side. She had certainly not been there thirty seconds ago. He felt like turning, reaching his arms wide, and embracing her. Kate was the one who had coaxed and argued and finessed and finagled, until the complete Seine resources were made available to Alex’s computer models. This was her moment as much as his, it should be a shared pleasure and excitement.
Alex was smart enough not to offer Kate even his little finger. She’d probably bite it off. She was his boss, so they had no choice but to continue to work together ever since he told her that he had agreed to meet with Lucy-Maria Mobarak. It was necessary, he had explained, because of “family pressure.” Kate had nodded, but from that moment everything between them had been on a cool and strictly professional basis. He did not recall that their hands had touched once. As for the idea of sleeping together …
He could see from the corner of his eye that she was looking him up and down with disapproval. He agreed with her completely. It was not from choice that he wore clothing so outmoded and uncomfortable.
Prosper and Karolus Ligon had laid down the rules. “It is nowhere a written requirement, Alex, but it will be expected of you. We realize that there is no commitment at this moment, on our side or Mobarak’s. However, your meeting with Lucy-Maria Mobarak is the first encounter between potential heirs of two of the System’s wealthiest families. You must dress in accordance with tradition. We refer, of course, to Ligon tradition.”
Ligon tradition stretched back more than two centuries. Which was why Alex, who normally worked in a sloppy jumpsuit and more often than not went barefoot, now stood attired in a stiff and starchy suit of gleaming white, a canary-yellow shirt fronted with jeweled ruby studs that had taken half an hour to fasten, and ancient two-toned shoes of yellow and white. They were a size too small and cramped his toes. Forcing those objects onto his feet, he had wondered about Mobarak tradition. Since Cyrus Mobarak was by Ligon standards an “upstart” and a “charlatan,” was there any such thing? What would Lucy-Maria be wearing?
Kate’s disgusted glance at Alex’s clothing said everything. Her only comment, however, was, “Your mother is outside. I don’t think you should keep her waiting.”
The model’s internal clock had reached 2143. Soon they would be at the half-century projection mark. “Will you keep an eye on this run?”
“I’ve been watching it closely since the moment it started. Don’t worry, Alex. It will not lack my attention.”
No enthusiasm in Kate’s tone, no suggestion that this could be an historic event in the field of predictive modeling. Alex nodded, swiveled on his heel, and squeaked out.
Lena Ligon was indeed waiting, with an expression more of curiosity than impatience. “So you actually work here. In an office.”
“Yes, Mother. Is there anything wrong with that?”
“Oh, no. If that is what amuses you.” Her glance took in and rejected the metal walls, harsh lighting, and worn floor tiles. “And that was the famous Kate Lonaker. She is taller and better-looking in person than her video would suggest. Interesting, if it is all-natural and without modifications.”
It was not an actual question. Alex remained silent. He allowed his mother to lead the way, through the labyrinthine inner tunnels of Ganymede, then onto an elevator that ascended rapidly more than four hundred kilometers. By the time they reached their destination level, the effective gravity had increased appreciably.
Alex assumed that his mother had dropped the subject of Kate, as beneath consideration. But Lena said suddenly, “She does not talk about you in a typical supervisor-employee way.”
“Oh?”
“No. I sensed that she was angry with you about something. She has airs above her station.”
“I had to leave for this meeting, right when I was in the middle of making computer runs of my prediction models.”
“This meeting is important. Anyway, not that sort of anger. Something more personal.” His mother flashed a glance at Alex from clear gray eyes, their whites almost luminous with health. “Are you two doing what these days is known as co-orbiting, but in my simpler youth was known as fucking each other?”
“No.” That was currently a true statement. Fortunately Lena did not go on to more detailed questioning.
“Good,” she said. “Keep it that way. One of your problems, Alex, is that you do not appreciate the vast gulf between you and the Kate Lonakers of the world. Ever since the time of your late great-uncle Sanford, we Ligons have followed a strict selection procedure for child-bearing. The genetic material brought into the mating from outside the family comes not from a single individual, but is a carefully-chosen chromosomal synthesis from several donors. Kate Lonaker is, I feel sure, the product of some indiscriminate, one-Y, single-father breeding. To her and to women like her—females with no family, pedigree, property, or prospects—you represent a catch of almost unimaginable value. It would not be necessary for her to extort promises from you. She could merely beguile you into ignoring all precautions, allowing her to become pregnant with your child with or without your knowledge … I assume that you remain on long-term prophylaxis? There is, after all, such a thing as loyalty to family tradition.”
Alex felt a brief uneasiness. He had asked Kate at the outset if she was fertile, and she had replied that at the moment she preferred not to be. He had believed her implicitly, and still did; but he had not asked her recently.
His stronger emotion, however, was disgust at his mother’s hypocrisy. How dare she lecture him about family tradition, when her own decision to become a Commensal, like that of Great-aunt Agatha and Cousin Juliana, had been made without regard to family needs? Commensality conferred, along with health and protection from almost every disease, an irreversible sterility. Alex, walking a pace behind his mother, surveyed her slender form. She had made the choice and now had the appearance and energy of a twenty year old, combined with a formidable libido. Her features and figure were perfection.
Lena Ligon was also, in specific ways that made Alex nervous but apparently worried Lena not a bit, no longer quite human.
It made Alex’s own skin crawl to think what lay underneath his mother’s epidermis. A hundred tailored organisms shared space in the interior of a Commensal. The one that Alex found most disgusting was the giant schistosome, a mature and genetically-enhanced worm that lay alongside and within Lena Ligon’s liver. The original parasite had been the source of weakness and debility for hundreds of millions of people. This one now guarded its terrain, the lower intestines, against all infestations. A lung fluke did the same for the chest and upper body cavity, a third genemod parasite inhabited one of the larger sulci of the brain and warded off tumor growth, Parkinson’s, and Alzheimer’s. These were just the three big ones, many centimeters long. Scores of other body-dwellers in a Commensal ranged in size from a millimeter or two down to a handful of specialized cells. Put them all together, with their own needs and priorities, and it was no longer clear who or what controlled the agenda of Lena Ligon’s life.
It was not even clear that the changes to Lena were safe. The technology in its present form had been applied for less than three years. If the methods had been developed in a Ganymede or Mars medical research center, that would have been some reassurance; but the Commensals were leftover Great War technology, discovered in the drifting remains of a Belt weapons shop. Reputable rejuvenators hesitated to use it. Who knew the original objectives? Who knew the undocumented long-term side effects? But Lena Ligon’s feelings were fairly typical. “My dear, long-term effects are who-cares effects. We want to look good and feel good now.”
The worst thing of all, from Alex’s point of view, was Lena’s new smell. It was not exactly unpleasant, rather the opposite. His mother’s body and breath exuded a subtle, musky perfume of modified pheromones. But the odor was different. A kiss on the cheek from Lena Ligon was now a creepy experience for Alex, to be avoided whenever possible.
“Remember,” his mother said, as
though reading Alex’s thoughts, “even if you find the sight, sound, and smell of this young woman rather strange, you must behave properly. If she smiles at you, smile back. If she offers you her hand, kiss it. If a subject seems distasteful to her, drop it at once. We can discuss any problems later, within the family. During the meeting, take your cues from me.”
Was his mother suggesting that Lucy-Maria Mobarak might also have become a Commensal?
It was a bit late to discuss the point. They were there. They had risen and risen, to a level of Ganymede higher than Alex had ever been except on obligatory school trips to see the stars at first-hand. This was the very highest level, with the actual surface no more than twenty meters above their heads. Alex’s first thought, that Cyrus Mobarak must have odd tastes to live in such a place, changed after a moment’s thought. The principal business of Mobarak Enterprises was fusion plants, and in the Outer System the fastest-growing use of fusion plants lay in transportation. While the number of colonized worlds grew linearly, transportation needs grew quadratically. The production of the Mobies had to be at the surface, or out in space itself.
As they stepped out onto the final level, the light changed. Alex instinctively looked up. Above his head, no more than ten meters away, stood a window with a glittering starscape beyond. His first thought—this is dangerous!—lasted only a split second. He realized that whatever the material of that window, it would be designed to withstand anything that hit it. The new Mobarak synthetics could supposedly tolerate a direct whack from a meteorite traveling at thirty kilometers a second. They could also dissipate impact energy so fast that only the top few centimeters of material were vaporized, while at the same time they photo-darkened so rapidly that the flash of light was no more than startling even from as close as ten meters.
The double doors in front of Lena and Alex were a fair copy of the ones that fronted the corporate offices of Ligon Industries. The metal plate with the sign, MOBARAK ENTERPRISES, was just as discreet. Imitation is one of the more reliable forms of flattery. Alex had secretly questioned Prosper Ligon’s assertion that Cyrus Mobarak yearned to join the Inner Circle of old money and influence. Now he was not so sure.
He was also beginning to wonder what he would find on the other side of those great double doors. Somehow, his agreement to have a simple meeting with Mobarak’s daughter had escalated. He had imagined maybe a drink together, or a quiet meal in an informal setting. Instead it had become an official family affair, with parents as chaperons. Alex was not sure he liked the idea of Cyrus Mobarak as a chaperon. The man’s reputation made anything said about Uncle Karolus or Great-aunt Agatha seem tame by comparison.
Meanwhile, the Fax who served as automatic doorkeeper had apparently satisfied itself as to their identity. The doors quietly swung open. Alex followed his mother into a huge room whose whole ceiling was a continuous window, with the naked heavens beyond. Again, Lena took no notice. Alex wondered if she knew what Nature was doing, less than twenty meters above their heads. He did, and didn’t like the thought.
It was not the mixture of rock and water-ice that made up most of Ganymede’s surface, that was no danger. The problem lay a little higher. Jupiter loomed in the sky, a million kilometers away. It gathered from the solar wind an endless supply of high-energy protons, accelerated them with its monstrous magnetic field, and delivered them as a murderous hail onto Ganymede’s frozen surface. A human in an ordinary spacesuit would cook and die within hours. The only safe way to wander the surface was in suits bearing in-woven threads of high-temperature superconductors. Charged particles followed the magnetic field lines, harmlessly around and past the suit’s surface. The human inside remained safe and snug.
Alex felt sure that his mother neither knew nor cared. Certainly, she seemed at ease as she advanced steadily toward the man standing on the richly-decorated carpet that covered the central fifteen meters of the room. The whole chamber was a recreation of some ancient Earth style, with pillars shaped as carved odalisques, red-lipped, full-bodied, and diaphanously clad, set at intervals around the walls. The furniture was all armchairs, dark and massive, with a low rectangular glass-topped table set in front of each.
The man in the middle of the ornately-furnished room was Cyrus Mobarak, known to Alex in appearance and reputation from media descriptions. Mobarak was in his fifties, shorter and more strongly-built than the video images would suggest, with a thick neck that bulged against a blue-and-white wing collar half a size too small. If Mobarak Enterprises had a “traditional” uniform for meetings like this, you would never discover it by looking at Mobarak himself. His suit was plain gray, lacking medals, decorations, or jewelry. His nose was prominent, he wore a thick shock of hair that he had allowed to gray naturally, and his brow ridges overhung pale, unreadable eyes.
Was this the famous “Sun King,” the powerhouse whose inventions had transformed energy generation and transportation systems from Mercury to the Oort Cloud? It hardly seemed possible.
And then Mobarak spoke. His voice was deep, his words quiet and conventional; no more than, “Hello, I am Cyrus Mobarak. Welcome to Mobarak Enterprises. I hope that before you leave you will have an opportunity to tour my home and workplace, and see what we do here.”
The man seemed to expand and glow as he spoke, investing simple words with warmth and pleasure and just a hint of humor.
Alex felt his own positive response as he said a polite greeting and shook Mobarak’s hand. His mother, so far as he could see, melted, crashed, and burned on first contact. When it was her turn to take Mobarak’s hand she seemed ready to have an orgasm on the spot.
“This is such a thrill. Of course, I’ve heard about the Sun King for years and years, and longed to meet you. Unless you have other plans, you and I and Alex and Lucy-Maria could go off together and have a meal. I thought, maybe a quiet place where we could begin to get to know each other.”
“That’s a splendid idea, and I wish it were possible. But I just can’t.” No one, listening to Mobarak, could doubt for a moment that his regret was genuine. “It’s my own stupid fault, arranging too many meetings in too short a time. I have to leave very soon. But there’s nothing to prevent the three of you from going off together—I know a perfect place, exclusive and quiet. Why don’t the three of you go? Unless, of course, you feel that the youngsters would be better left to themselves, just the two of them. I suspect that they might enjoy that.”
In half a dozen sentences, Cyrus Mobarak convinced Alex of three things. First, Mobarak was a master at dealing with people. He had implied that Lena Ligon would be about as necessary to the forthcoming meeting as breasts on a spaceship, but he had done it in such a way that Lena was nodding agreement at the notion that the younger generation should be left alone. Second, Mobarak had decided to take a look at Alex before he introduced Lucy-Maria. Apparently Alex had passed that test. And third, Mobarak was as interested in a union of the two families as Prosper Ligon or anyone else in Ligon Industries. Suddenly, Alex wondered what he was about to meet. He had seen pictures of Lucy-Maria, but you could fix a picture to look like almost anything. A king of ancient England had agreed to marry on the strength of an inaccurate picture (and had later executed the man who arranged the whole thing).
Mobarak led the way to a half-open door. Alex, prepared for the worst, followed.
The room beyond was furnished and decorated in the same lush style of a departed era. By contrast, the young woman seated on a two-person love seat defined personal rebellion and a clash of times and cultures. Her dark hair was cut in the absolute latest style, straight across her low forehead with framing curves around her cheeks and shaped to touch below her chin. Her arms, shoulders, and bosom were bare, her breasts exposed almost to the nipples. Every square inch of that glowing, dusky skin was covered with the iridescent glitter points that Alex had never seen before except on entertainment stars. She sat cross-legged, so that a split skirt showed bare leg and more star glitter all the way to her upper thigh.
The overall effect was stunning. What had Hector said? That she looked terrific? For once in his life, Hector was right.
Mobarak said, “Lucy, I would like to introduce you to Alex Ligon, and to his mother, Lena.”
The young woman nodded at Mobarak’s words but made no attempt to stand or speak. Which left it up to Alex. Running on shocked autopilot, he followed his mother’s earlier suggestion. He stepped forward, lifted Lucy-Maria’s hand to his lips, and kissed it.
That produced a frown, followed by an unreadable little smile.
“Sit down, Alex,” Mobarak said. And then, as Alex did so, on a chair facing Lucy-Maria, Mobarak turned to Lena. “I wonder if you might like to see a little more of Mobarak Enterprises. If so, I would be delighted to give you a guided tour.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, but turned at once toward a smaller door set between two marble statues of winged lions. Lena didn’t even glance toward Alex as she followed.
So much for support and guidance, or any idea that Alex might receive helpful cues from his mother. He placed his hands on his knees and wondered how his computer run was going, back in the plain surroundings of the government offices. He wished he were there.
As an innocuous opening remark, he said, “Your father seems like a most impressive man.”
There was a long and empty silence. The great antiquated room lacked even the normal hiss of an air supply system. Alex wondered if Lucy-Maria had some kind of hearing problem that no one had bothered to mention. Looking into her eyes, big and dark, was like looking into space. There seemed to be nothing behind them.
At last she said, “Impressive? Not if you talk to my mother.”
“She’s here?”
“Good God, no. She’s back on Earth in Punta Arenas. He pays to keep her there. I visit a couple of times a year. She tells me he’s a real shit.”
As a line of conversation this one didn’t seem promising. Alex, after a few dead seconds, said, “I didn’t have a father in the usual sense. My mother preferred an in vitro development. The genetic material on the paternal side came from a combination of nine different males that she selected, providing a variety of different potentials.”
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