Scions of Sacrifice

by Eric Kent Edstrom

  The president finally understood what he was waiting for. She turned her head slightly. “Leave us.”

  She watched some movement off-camera for a few more moments, then turned her attention back to Dr. Carlhagen. “You may speak freely.”

  “You do have the senate, Madam President. On this particular issue, in any case.”

  He waited. And finally the realization dawned. It was a realization the woman should have had fifteen years prior, at the point when she had prepared her own Scion in his program. He had swabbed the DNA from the inside of her cheek himself. She had been so excited, so enthusiastic, about the idea of transferring at the young age of 65 into an 18-year-old body.

  And yet she had never, not until this moment, considered that others in her position were doing the same damn thing. It boggled Dr. Carlhagen’s mind.

  But now the president understood. “How many senators do you have?”

  Dr. Carlhagen saw no reason to show her the entirety of his hand. “If you need senators to support legalizing clones, you don’t have to make a single phone call. Issue the statement and you’ll find your political opponents falling into line.” Because her political opponents had Scions as well. He had made Scions for nine of the most senior senators in office. True, most of those Scions were still children under Mother Tyeesha’s care, but that didn’t matter. These politicians were so self-important they didn’t believe the world could go on without them. They justified their Scions in all sorts of ways. Only a few were able to admit their hunger for youth. Ironically, those were the only ones Dr. Carlhagen respected.

  “Just one statement to the press, Madam President,” he said. “You can even narrow the legalization to clones of the kind commissioned by Elizabeth Burnell. Say that these bodies are not really carbos, not technically. They are replacement bodies. Just make the populace hope that they too will someday get a chance to return to their youth.”

  The president probed the inside of her mouth with her tongue, making her cheek bulge, as she thought through Dr. Carlhagen’s statements. It made her look like a complete imbecile. Leslie had never been the brightest Scion, and now Dr. Carlhagen saw why.

  The president’s thinking eventually got her there. “Very well, Doctor. You’re fortunate that your program has been so successful. You’re fortunate that what you offer is so valuable.”

  Dr. Carlhagen knew she meant it as a sort of threat. But her statements were so obvious she didn’t realize how stupid they made her sound. “I apologize for the inconvenience, Madam President. You know Maxine well. Despite my insistence to the contrary, she wanted to come forward today. And as for the Progenitors on Vin’s Island . . .” He shook his head, as if very disappointed in poorly behaving children. “. . . they understood the rules. I cannot explain why they all congregated in the same place at the same time where there would be cameras.”

  “It is interesting that Maxine chose a different body. As I recall she was a lovely young woman. I’m sure her Scion would have suited perfectly. And the one she’s embodying now—perhaps it’s just the holovid I saw—but she seems rather young. Surely her body is not that of an 18-year-old girl.” The president’s eyes brightened with keen realization. “I see how it is. Maxine had brain cancer. Everyone knew it. She went to your island to transfer early. She didn’t choose this Scion body that she’s in. She had no choice. Her Scion was too young.”

  Dr. Carlhagen realized he had been played, and it infuriated him. And behind that fury was a grudging admiration. He saw now exactly how Annabelle Rochelle had risen to power. She put forward the illusion of denseness of mind. She wanted people to underestimate her abilities.

  “Incisive analysis, Madam President. But I assure you, the body Maxine Bentilius now inhabits was old enough for the transfer. But you are correct. Her Scion was too young.” And completely unavailable, because Jacey had run off with her into the rainforest.

  “My Scion is sixteen,” the president mused.

  Dr. Carlhagen nodded. Acid bubbled in his stomach. He saw where this conversation was heading. He sought to fend off the president’s next statement. “Yes. And in two years your Scion will be ready to receive your transfer.”

  “You just said yourself that the world would come to accept the face of youth in power. And I agree. Youth is beauty, beauty youth. That is all you need to know.”

  Unbidden, a chuckle burbled out of Dr. Carlhagen’s throat. The president had cleverly altered the famous last line of John Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn.” Oh yes. She was a sly one. And the allusion to Keats was signal to Dr. Carlhagen to watch his step.

  “Madam President, I assure you the risks of transferring early—though low—are not worth taking.” Not to mention, he did not have possession of her Scion at the moment.

  “I will see you in a week on St. Vitus. I will transfer to my Scion. And then I will come forward into my role as president, reinvigorated, beautiful and young. I shall rule for a century. Two centuries.”

  Dr. Carlhagen said nothing. He offered a slight nod and a very fake smile.

  There were no polite goodbyes. The president’s image flickered out of existence, leaving the holodesk bare and blank.

  Cursing on a long exhale, he fell back into his chair and covered his head with his hands.

  “Lazarus,” he said. “Get me Captain Wilcox.”

  17

  An Incarnation of the Goddess

  Two hundred kilometers south and west of St. Vitus, it was slightly hotter than what the Scions were accustomed to, but many of the trees and bushes here were the same. The rolling hills running along the island north to south were the same type of blunt lumps as on St. Vitus.

  But yes, it was hotter.

  Humphrey wiped at the sweat beading on his brow and squinted at the sun. It was already mid-morning and the Scions were just now getting settled in their barracks.

  Barracks. That was what Orson called the shiny corrugated metal half-tubes. Mother Tyeesha had called them Quonset huts, and said the design was hundreds of years old. Whatever they were, the utilitarian structures kept the rain and bugs out.

  The general layout of the Scion School had been loosely replicated here, minus the classrooms. There was no bell tower, and not much of a quad. The dining hall and medical ward stood next to each other. All were made from the same steel pre-fab half-tubes. The entire compound was hemmed in with a thirty-meter-tall chain-link fence. A sliding gate, complete with siren and flashing red lights, was the sole entrance.

  That gate now lay in the bushes a few hundred meters south. And once they were all settled, Humphrey would have the rest of the fence removed as well.

  But there were other priorities at the moment.

  Humphrey’s stomach rumbled. Food wouldn’t be ready for a few hours yet. Obu and Dajeet were in the kitchens now trying to get the stove started. Not that there was much to cook. The only real food was what they had brought from St. Vitus. The food Mr. Justin and Orson had stored for the Scions did not require cooking.

  Humphrey peeled the wrapper off one of the so-called “meal ready to eat” bars. Printed on the brown paper was simply: “M.R.E. Packaged in Kazakhstan.” There were beige flecks embedded in the bar. Humphrey hoped they weren’t wood chips, but that’s what they looked like..

  The food material didn’t give under his teeth.

  “You’ll want to dunk that,” Orson said. “Not too bad in coffee.”

  The lumpy man stood next to Humphrey, wearing a sweat-stained T-shirt that strained over his belly. He fidgeted with a cigar that Humphrey wouldn’t let him smoke. He chewed on it instead, one end now a slobbery stub that turned Humphrey’s stomach every time it came out of the man’s lips.

  “Over there is Justin’s hut,” he said, pointing with a meaty forefinger. “Nice digs.”

  It was the only structure not made out of corrugated steel. Such modest accommodations. But upon reflection, Humphrey understood. Building a hacienda like Dr. Carlhagen’s would require a crew of skil
led laborers. And such people would ask questions Mr. Justin hadn’t wanted people asking.

  “And where were you going to live?” he asked.

  Orson popped the cigar back into his teeth and spoke around it. “Vegas.” He apparently found this hilarious, for he laughed until he started wheezing. Humphrey was about to smack him on the back so he could dislodge whatever chunk of phlegm was blocking his airway, but Wanda rushed up, towing Bethancy behind her.

  Humphrey could tell by the looks on their faces that they’d uncovered some new emergency for him to worry about. He waited for them to say it.

  Wanda motioned at Bethancy. The girl’s face reddened and she muttered something to Wanda. Humphrey thought it had the words “why are you embarrassing me” in it. Again, he waited.

  Bethancy conceded defeat in her battle of wills with Wanda. A wise move, considering that Wanda was the oldest girl among the Scions on the island.

  Self-consciously pulling her hair back from her face, Bethancy gave Humphrey a sullen look. “The toilets don’t have water in them.”

  “Did you look for a valve nearby? There should be a small pipe feeding water in.”

  “That’s just it. There are no pipes. The toilets are just seats with holes in them. It’s a pit underneath.”

  Wanda was visibly trying to keep her face composed. “I told her this wasn’t a priority.”

  “Not a priority?” Bethancy cried. “The little ones need to go. Now.”

  Orson was making no effort to mask his amusement, which earned him a withering glare from Bethancy.

  “Bethancy wanted me to bring this, quote untenable unquote, situation to your attention,” Wanda said, lips thin with irritation at foolish girls and their petty complaints.

  The Dolphin Ivan ran up, breath heaving. “Humphrey! The toilets are just pits!”

  Orson bent double and started wheezing again. Humphrey hoped he choked. Wanda pressed a hand over her face. She shook her head and murmured something about useless Scions.

  “Bethancy. Ivan.” Humphrey gave them heavy-lidded stares. “Thank you for bringing the situation to my attention. I’m afraid there is nothing I can do about it. I need you both to set a good example for the others. This is very important. So my orders are that you two immediately go and use these disgusting toilets. Put on a brave face, pretend to be cavalier about it. You might even point out that you want to be first.”

  Bethancy’s skepticism showed very plainly. But Ivan straightened and sketched a little salute. “Yes, Humphrey.” He dashed off.

  When Bethancy didn’t leave, Humphrey said, “Surely you are at least as brave as a nine-year-old boy.”

  Posture stiff with rage—or maybe disgust—the girl followed after Ivan. Wanda snickered and patted Humphrey’s back. “You are a natural.”

  Orson slowly recovered. “You kids have had a sheltered life. Where I grew up, having doors on the pit toilets was a luxury.”

  Wanda gave a little start. “My reader is buzzing.” She held it up.

  Vaughan’s face filled the screen. Without greeting, he said, “The network is up and running. The bandwidth is several orders of magnitude greater here than that trickle I got on Aphrodite. I—”

  Vaughan’s image froze and his voice distorted into incomprehensibility.

  “Vaughan?” Humphrey said. “You froze.”

  Vaughan’s face was stuck, mouth open. Half his face had pixelated.

  Wanda rapped the screen with her knuckles. “Vaughan?”

  “Belle?” Humphrey said. “What’s happening with Vaughan?”

  Belle didn’t answer.

  He called for her again, adding a grudging “please” at the end.

  Belle’s face popped up next to Vaughan’s. Her snowy hair was loose and a bit windblown, with careless strands falling over her eyes. She had a distracted sort of look on her face. “Vaughan is fine. It’s the same as the first time he got access to the fire hose,” she said, reusing Vaughan’s peculiar analogy.

  “Why aren’t you, uh, drinking from the fire hose, too?” Wanda asked Belle. “Maybe if you were helping, he could find Jacey more quickly.”

  To Belle’s credit, she did not offer an immediate and scathing retort. In fact, she flinched. “I don’t . . . I don’t know how.”

  A stunning admission coming from the girl who never admitted any failings. Maybe Belle truly was changing for the better. But Wanda’s point still stood.

  “Couldn’t you learn?” Humphrey asked. “Senator Bentilius must be with Dr. Carlhagen. Maybe if you can trace her last broadcast—”

  “That’s what Vaughan was going to tell you before he froze up. He has a lead.”

  “Oh. Does he freeze up like this often?”

  “It’s the data flow. He’s apportioning all of his processing power on sorting and interpreting it. He’s not giving anything to just living.”

  The weirdness of the statement distracted Humphrey from his impatience. “Does it really feel like living in there?”

  Belle’s eyes glistened, and she licked her lips. “A day or two ago I would have said this is the first time I’ve ever felt alive. But what Vaughan does here . . . It isn’t life like you and I know it. I think it’s because he came here already a good person.”

  Wanda’s fingers gripped the reader harder. Humphrey knew without looking that she was overtaken with empathy toward Belle. Despite the pale girl’s meanness, she was part of the Scion family. And she had sacrificed herself for Jacey.

  “Vaughan is special,” Humphrey said. “But surely your programming is the same. If he can drink from the fire hose, you can, too.”

  “No doubt,” Belle said, some of her former iciness returning. “I’m trying. Or—I’m trying to learn to not try so hard. He keeps telling me to let go, but I don’t even know what that means.”

  Humphrey had no advice to offer. And he knew Belle wouldn’t want to hear it anyway. Besides, what did he know about letting go? As far as he could tell, life was all about holding on as hard as you could. Most of the time, he found himself holding on with only one hand—his knuckles going white while his feet dangled over the edge of a cliff. If he let go, the other Scions would all fall with him.

  “How is your guest doing?” Wanda said, wisely shifting the subject away from Belle’s failure to help with the data flow.

  Apparently she touched another sore spot, for Belle’s face collapsed into pure rage. “I assume you’re referring to Elizabeth. Well, let me tell you. That wanton harlot cavorts about the beach in nothing but her suntan most of the time. And when Vaughan isn’t frozen in the data flow, she’s usually got an instance hovering near him, ready to be oh-so-helpful. I’d like to smack that lascivious smile right off her face.”

  “So, Elizabeth is doing well?” Humphrey said, intending a joke.

  It fell with a thud. Belle’s eyes flashed with fire. Literal fire. One of those dramatic visual effects Vaughan was always adding to his appearances and disappearances. So she had at least learned to manipulate some elements of her simulated world.

  “This is where Vaughan and I don’t see things the same way at all.” Belle jabbed a thumb into her breastbone. “I say we delete that woman. She’s a Progenitor. She overwrote Vin. And you saw the same news reports I did. That little chickadee is throwing parties on her island of debauchery in Vin’s real body. Elizabeth should be deleted! Slowly. Byte by murderous byte.”

  Humphrey was well aware of Vaughan’s absolute refusal to delete the woman. Vaughan had warned Jacey that to install Elizabeth on his server was to keep her there forever. “Vaughan is too forgiving,” he said.

  “Yes he is,” Wanda said.

  Belle slumped. “And I wouldn’t have him any other way.”

  “Me either,” Wanda said.

  “Nor me,” Humphrey said. This was the very thing that had made Vaughan beloved by all the Scions. One could not get on his bad side, for he simply did not have one.

  Vaughan’s image juddered, his limbs suddenly multip
lying, voice coming through, distorted and broken. “. . . One hundred seven nautical kilometers due south.”

  “Say that again,” Humphrey said, pressing his face close to Wanda’s reader.

  “Dr. Carlhagen. I found him. Not easy. I had to invent a back-tracing and inference ghost packet probability calculator. Once I narrowed Dr. Carlhagen’s likely locations from that, I hung out in some municipal data systems and pried my way into some satellite relay logs. The key was the return video from SNN studios. Simple triangulation from there.”

  “Um, what?” Humphrey said.

  “Never mind. The senator’s broadcast came from an island one hundred seven nautical kilometers south of your current position.”

  Hands trembling with excitement, Humphrey unclipped his walkie-talkie and called for Summer. She didn’t answer. The signal was too weak to reach the ship and penetrate into the engine room.

  “Great work, Vaughan,” Humphrey said. He ran for the Jeep, leaving Wanda to stare after him.

  Five minutes later, the vehicle’s studded tires skittered over the bumpy track leading to the docks. Fifteen minutes later they skidded to a stop. He raised the walkie-talkie to his lips before he even jumped out. “Summer. Stop whatever you’re doing and get this bucket ready to sail.”

  Static blared at him from the small speaker, followed by Summer’s annoyed-sounding voice. “It can’t sail. It runs on diesel. And I haven’t finished rigging her to sink.”

  “Never mind sinking her,” Humphrey said, eyeing the clear blue sky for reconnaissance aircraft. “We’re taking her out for one more cruise.”

  “Really?” Summer’s voice perked up. “Where to?”

  “Vaughan found Dr. Carlhagen. We’re heading south. We’re going to get Livy and end this.”