by Beva John
It is like something out of a Jules Verne novel.
I am taken to a facility where I am examined medically. I have a place to bathe and I am dressed in new clothes which are different from any clothes I have ever worn before.
I love wearing trousers instead of skirts and I am given an item of clothing called a bra to replace my chemise and corset. I find it a great improvement.
I also meet with a human official who patiently explains my rights and obligations on the planet of Allathone. She is dressed like me in trousers and a high-necked blouse. Her blonde hair is cut short and curls around her ears.
She says, “Hello, my name is Elizabeth and I am here to act as a liaison, to help you get situated.” She holds out her hand to greet me.
I can’t help but smile. It is so good to see someone who looks like myself. I shake her hand, grateful for the familiar gesture. I take a chair and sit across a table from her.
She seems tired and I wonder how many women she assists. Elizabeth explains that I do have some rights here as a citizen on the planet Allathone, but that there is no long-term public assistance. “Within a month, you will need to find employment.”
I nod. That makes sense. In Boston, people who fall upon hard times can get some assistance from the local parish, but no one is willing to support someone for years if they have the means of supporting themselves. “I am not afraid of hard work.”
“Excellent. Fortunately, you have some options. Historically, humans have been abducted by travelers for hundreds of years. Many of them were abducted as sex workers.”
I gasp. “Prostitutes?”
“Yes,” she says, and I feel a moment’s panic. Have I safeguarded my virtue for so many years only to become a harlot now?
But she continues calmly, “However, you were bought more as a decorative item and now you have the opportunity to become a hosting vessel or surrogate.”
That sounds better than being a whore. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“No doubt you have noticed that Brune women have very small waists.”
“I have. It is most peculiar. Even with the tightest corset lacing, I could never have a waist that small.”
Elizabeth says, “It is not natural. Over thousands of years, Brune females have modified themselves.” She looks at me closely. “When you were on Earth, were you aware of the different breeds of dogs?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it is something like that. The Brunes valued some physical aspects over others and now they are physically unable to bear children.”
I shudder. “That is terrible.”
Elizabeth shrugs, not willing to criticize the ruling species. “It is an opportunity for us – for humans – to provide wombs.”
“How is that possible?”
“Perhaps this was not scientifically possible in your day, but later there were women who chose to be the surrogates for others. Doctors would take an embryo – the sperm and egg – from others and place it inside the woman’s uterus and then the baby would grow. When the baby was born, it was returned to its biological parents.”
I am amazed that such things are possible.
“Would you be willing to do this?” Elizabeth asks.
“I think so.” I would consider it an act of charity to help others create a family.
The truth of the matter is, I never thought that I would have children, because there was never anyone who wished to marry me. After the War of the Rebellion, single men were scarce, and at twenty-seven I am too old to be an ingenue.
Also, I was not foolish enough to lie with some man before a ring was on my finger. I have seen too many young women abandoned by their lovers and dying in poverty.
“The benefit of becoming a surrogate is that it gives you more time to choose a career. Many women use the time of their pregnancy to educate themselves and become trained in other fields. Some women, of course, go on to have several children, although I do not recommend that because I believe it taxes the body.”
I remember some of my neighbors in Boston, poor women in their twenties who looked twice as old because they had given birth to so many children. But one child should not be too difficult to bear. “Yes, I will do it.”
Elizabeth smiles. “Excellent. You have already been chosen by an aristocratic family who will pay well. That is why you were released from stasis.”
That is good, I suppose, although I am not in favor of a class system. As an American, I feel that every person has dignity and that everyone should be equal. But it is not my place to change Brune society. I must take care of myself first and leave philosophy to the philosophers.
Elizabeth says, “We will arrange the contracts and then you will move to the Maternity Sector, better known as Baby Town.”
BABY TOWN IS MY UTOPIA. I am surrounded by women at various stages of pregnancy, which can be emotionally challenging, but I have all day, every day, to do what I please. We live in large buildings, like the best hotels in Boston, but four times as tall, with individual rooms. The buildings are light and bright, decorated with pastel colors and large floral paintings on the walls – very soothing.
I can read, I can study, I can sit for hours, talking to others about their lives and the history of Earth. I learn that Earth destroyed itself in 2081 in a nuclear war. Before everyone died, however, the Katoll – the lion looking race – helped thousands of humans escape. Their descendants now live on a planet called Little Earth. Some of my companions are from Little Earth – others were abducted like myself and stored in stasis for hundreds of years.
It is sobering to consider that I might have remained in a pod until my body eventually died, but I have been released, and I am determined to learn all I can about my new world.
And I am grateful. Three times a day, there is hot food in a cafeteria. I sleep in a warm room with clean sheets, and I can wash and dry my hair every day if I wish. There are beautiful walled gardens where I can walk and enjoy nature.
I have met some women who were abducted from Earth as I was, and they are still grieving their past lives.
Not I.
I have never been happier.
Back in Boston, I was starving and freezing, supporting myself by sewing doll clothes or working as a domestic and writing for the newspapers by candlelight in the evenings.
And now, I am free.
Apparently, there are still some arrangements to be made before I become a surrogate, but I am not in a hurry. I am perfectly happy to remain in Baby Town.
There is so much to learn about this new world and new culture. In my day, people travelled by horse drawn carriage or possibly by train. On Allathone, people travel in individual vehicles that levitate and move forward without tracks. I haven’t seen one yet, but there are also large spaceships that can take thousands of people to different planets traveling through something called wormholes.
It all seems like magic to me, but I know there is science behind it.
My favorite device is the data screen on my left forearm. By merely speaking to it or pressing buttons, I have access to all the information in the five galaxies. It is like living in the Boston Public Library on Bolyston Street, which contained more than 70,000 books.
But now, with my data screen, I have access to millions of books. And I can translate books from German or French into English by the touch of another button.
I feel as if the entire world of knowledge has opened up to me, but it is overwhelming – like taking a drink of water from a fire hydrant.
Can one drown from too much information?
If so, I will happily drown.
One day, as I am sitting with some women, playing cards, one of them sitting by a window notices a vehicle outside. “That’s a royal car, isn’t it?”
Several of the women look out the window. “I think so,” one says.
“Holy shit. Is that the Crown Prince?” This is from my new friend Dorothy. She lives in the bedroom next to mine and was abducted from Earth i
n the 1950’s. She has short, bright blonde hair and wears red lip paint like her idol – an actress named Marilyn Monroe. I find her manners brusque and bold, and I wish that I were more like her.
I don’t bother to look out the window myself, because I have little interest in Brune’s royal family. I understand that King Tormag died a few years ago and now his wife, Queen Erdene, is ruling. I have seen photographs and she reminds me of Queen Victoria – a white-haired alien, ornately dressed – but with blue skin and pointy ears. In her younger years, she was pretty with a tight hour-glass figure, renown for her miniscule waist.
Someone says, “Prince Magnar did get engaged this year. Perhaps he is arranging for their first child.” In Brune society, couples do not actually marry until an heir is born alive and healthy.
Another woman touches her rounded stomach. “Maybe I’m carrying the heir.”
“You wish,” Dorothy says dryly, and everyone laughs.
Obviously, it would be considered an honor to be the royal surrogate.
For the most part, the biological parentage of the babies carried in Baby Town remains confidential.
The women around me gossip and talk for the next half hour. Out of idle curiosity, I press the data screen on my left arm. I see a digital image of Prince Magnar. He is tall, as most of the Brunes are tall, and fit, with short dark hair and a strong jaw.
He's handsome, if one doesn’t mind blue skin and pointy ears.
I wonder what he is doing in Baby Town, but since it has nothing to do with me, I darken the screen on my arm and return to the card game.
Then one of the Brune staff members comes into the room. “Lottie?” she says. “You have a visitor.”
CHAPTER THREE
MAGNAR
The human female is not what I expected. She is no longer wearing the historic dress from her pod. Now she is wearing white, loose pants and a matching blouse that flows down to her knees. As she moves, I can see the curve of breast and hip under the soft fabric. Unlike Brune women, she wears no belt around her waist. Her face is clean, free of any cosmetics and her pale pinkish skin glows with health. I have never considered a human female to be pretty before, but her features, especially her bright, intelligent eyes, are attractive. She wears no jewelry other than the cameo earrings that Jing coveted. Her brown hair hangs down her back in a long braid.
The worker introduces us.
The human’s name is Lottie.
She looks at me directly, with curiosity rather than deference, which startles me. I am accustomed to deference.
“I wish to speak with this woman privately,” I say curtly. “Please leave.”
The worker bows her head. “Yes, Your Highness.”
Once the door closes behind her, I motion to a chair. “Please be seated.”
Lottie sits in a chair opposite to me. She sits quietly, knees together, with her hands resting in her lap. I notice that her hands are perfectly clean now, with no ink stains. Her fingernails are cut short and have no decoration. Most Brune women paint their nails as well as their faces with swirls of color.
“Do you like it here?” I ask.
She smiles slightly. “Yes, very much. Thank you, sir.”
She has a pleasant, melodic voice. “I am glad.”
After that, I don’t know what to say, which is strange for me. From my infancy, I have been schooled in polite conversation. But I rarely speak with humans, I realize, and I have never had a private conversation with a human female other than my Nanny before. I clear my throat. “You may have guessed that my fiancé and I are considering you as our surrogate.”
She nods.
“But I wanted to meet you first.”
She waits.
“I assume someone has explained all the rules to you – the obligations you will have, and that after the birth, if all parties agree, you may remain as a nanny.”
She nods. “I have heard of that, yes.”
“Is that something you would consider?”
She looks at me directly. “Surely that is for you and your fiancé to decide.”
It is, but for some unfathomable reason, I want her approval as well. I say, “Yes, and that will depend on whether we think you are suitable. Naturally, that decision will be made later, after the baby is born.”
“Yes, sir, although to be perfectly honest, you may find that I would not be suitable.”
She has my entire attention now. I raise one eyebrow inquiringly. “Why is that?”
She lifts her chin. “I don’t approve of monarchy,” she says bluntly. “My ancestors fought against a monarchy in a war – some of them died. I believe that every person’s voice should be heard, and that democracy is the best form of government.”
Rather than taking offense, I am amused by her vehemence. I find it astonishing that a human dares to criticize the Brune culture when her own civilization self-destructed centuries ago. I say only, “You have not been on Allathone long enough to understand our government – let alone judge it. Perhaps by the time a baby is born, you will have come to appreciate our way of life.”
Her cheeks flush at my gentle rebuke and she lowers her gaze. “Perhaps.”
I rise to my feet. “Very well. We shall proceed with the fertilization process. Thank you for being willing to carry my child and I wish you a safe, happy pregnancy and birth.”
She nods. “Thank you, sir.”
“If you have any concerns or additional requests, you may contact my secretary.” I hold out my hand for her to bare her data screen, but instead she grasps my right hand with hers.
Appalled, I step back, breaking her hold on me. “Whatever are you doing?” No one touches me without permission.
She says, “I was shaking your hand. I thought that was what you were doing.”
“No. I merely wanted access to your data screen to enter the access information for my secretary.”
“Oh. I beg your pardon, sir.” She appears flustered as she rolls her sleeve up and bares her left forearm. She stands still as she lets me enter data on her screen so she can contact my secretary Naj.
As I do so, I can’t help but notice how good she smells – a combination of a floral scented soap and the underlying scent that is hers alone.
I wonder if I licked her if she would taste as good as she smells.
I brush that unsettling thought aside quickly.
Normally I do not touch others and I do not let them touch me.
Once that task is finished, I step back and ask, “The hand shaking. Is it a human custom?”
“It is. In ancient times, men shook right hands as a matter of good faith, to show that they were not carrying weapons.”
How odd. Statistically Brunes are predominantly right-handed as well.
I smile. “I see. But I already know that you do not have a weapon. None of the females in the Maternity Sector are armed.”
“As far as you know. Perhaps one of them is sharpening an eating utensil.”
From her wry tone, I don’t know if she is joking. I hold out my right hand, wanting our skin to touch again, if only for an instant. “Then I accept your gesture, Lottie, in the manner in which it was intended.
She takes my hand in her small warm hand and gives it a quick, downward motion. “Thank you, sir.”
LOTTIE
After Prince Magnar leaves, I sink down onto my chair; I feel light-headed, unsteady. My heart beats rapidly. The Prince was taller than I expected, at least six foot six or seven, and so handsome. I wish I had kept my mouth shut instead of rudely blathering on about my political views. And I touched him, taking his hand without permission, which I am certain was against the protocol rules. What was I thinking?
The truth was, I wasn’t thinking. I was reacting. The moment Prince Magnar entered the room, he took my breath away.
He is a beautiful creature: magnificent with his broad shoulders, high cheekbones and square jaw.
He moves with the grace of an athlete or a professional dancer, bu
t there is a stillness to him, confidence and power.
His commanding voice, low and steady, sent ripples of pleasure through me, like no one else before.
And when he held my hand I almost swooned.
I absent-mindedly rub the back of my neck, wondering why I was chosen to be his surrogate.
And how am I going to do my job without making a fool of myself?
I feel giddy, which is foolish.
I am not a young girl. I am twenty-seven years old – too old for infatuation.
And he is just a man.
No, I correct myself and take a deep steadying breath. He is just a traveler, as the species here are called. A Brune. An aristocratic Brune.
And he is the Crown Prince, for heaven’s sake, engaged to another.
He will never be anything more to me than my employer.
I must ignore my silly physical response and refuse to let him fluster me.
CHAPTER FOUR
LOTTIE
It takes three attempts for the fertilization to succeed. I am concerned at first, thinking that I might be at fault, but Dorothy tells me not to worry. “The success rate is even worse for artificial wombs.”
She, like me, is happily pregnant now, although she conceived earlier, and her stomach is already growing round.
We spend our days reading, watching viewings and walking in the gardens.
All our physical needs are met in Baby Town, and we are treated like queens. Servants daily massage our bodies and curl our hair. Every week we go the doctors to be measured and prodded, making certain that our little surrogate Brune babies are progressing appropriately.
We wear medical bracelets on our right wrists that constantly monitor our heart rate and multiple other aspects of our health as well as the babies’.
And then when my pregnancy is one month along, I am told to pack my few belongings because I will be moving to the palace.