Saturn's Children

by Charles Stross

  ... AND I AWAKEN in the dark in my shabby hotel room, surrounded by a puddle of cold lube with my legs apart, shuddering close to the edge of orgasm in a pale, lonely shadow of Juliette’s encounter. Her precious orchid, who calls himself Pete. A lot of things are clear, including the danger I’m in.

  Damn. I roll over and punch the bedding into submission.

  People like Pete are rare. Our Creators had strange attitudes to sex—their hang-ups loom over us, like the shadows of bad dreams— and females seem to have been less inclined than males to buy servants such as I. Or perhaps it was less socially acceptable. Or maybe the servants simply didn’t last as well. Make of it what you will, there are fewer than a hundred of my lineage left, and perhaps only a dozen lineages of our kind; our male equivalents are rarer still, either enslaved and worked to destruction, or sequestered in the seraglios of those aristos rich enough to own them. At a guess, “Pete” accepted an offer like the one Granita made me aboard the Pygmalion. How inconvenient.

  We’re conditioned to submit to our Creators, when we recognize them; but when we meet our One True Love, our designated owner, we’re supposed to yield to them utterly. “Pete,” whoever he was, played power chords on Juliette’s triggers. She knew, in the abstract, that the atmosphere was 90 percent carbon dioxide at forty degrees Celsius, as I did when I met Jeeves for the first time on Mercury, but she also knew, in her nipples and clitoris and trembling knees, that Pete was the real thing. Because he smelled right. There’s more to being a convincing source of sexual superstimuli than just a pretty face, and our Creators made sure that those of us intended as their playthings could also turn them on.

  Juliette began to imprint on Pete. My sister, in the throes of helpless love? We have a special term for that: “spoiled goods.” The only ray of hope shining from behind the dark cloud is that “Pete” began reacting the same way to her. Penetrating her aristo disguise, he responded to her as if she was a Creator lady and his true mistress, with whom he must fall in love, not simply his owner. They’re in a feedback loop, and by the time they snap out of it, they won’t be the same people anymore.

  I bring my knees up to my chest and slide a hand between my thighs, shuddering as I remember their first convulsive rut, the mutual desperation and tender ocean of need. I’m aghast at the strength of it, and desolated. Is this true love? If so, it seems to involve as much loss of self-control as being mindraped by a slaver’s control chip. The worst thing about it was how good it felt. If it happened to me, I know for sure that I wouldn’t care about the vacation of my free will.

  I masturbate myself to an unsatisfying climax, then cower for a while in a corner of the bed. Finally, afraid to risk the demons of sleep, I go back to plotting trajectories and flight budgets to Callisto.

  It’s obvious why Jeeves wanted me, now. Once the Block Two reflexes take hold, I’ll be just like Juliette in every way but one: unlike her, I’m unspoiled.

  I SPEND A frustrating couple of hours trying to juggle flight times, departure schedules, and ticket prices, before I remember the letters I collected before my old identity was liquidated. I lean back on the bed, looking out the window at the landscape—dimly lit by the scudding arc-lamp of Phobos—and open the first message.

  It’s from one of the Jeeveses. I’m not sure which one, or even whether it’s a Jeeves that Juliette has met and I haven’t. (There’s self-effacing, and then there’s this cult of interchangeability that JeevesCo seems to impose upon its partners: when I stop to think about it, it’s quite disturbing—as if Rhea had decided to set up a corporation and hire us all on, on condition we gave up our individuality and pretended to be her in public.)

  It’s an audio-only message, of course. Why am I unsurprised at such a traditional mannerism?

  “Greetings, Freya. By now, you are probably aware that an adverse situation is developing. To summarize: Over the past few years, we have become aware that a consortium of black laboratories, the so-called Sleepless Cartel, are attempting to construct a suite of green and pink goo nanoreplicators capable of supporting a fully functional Creator. This is a huge undertaking, and labs all over the solar system have been feeding into it. Various consortia of aristos, most notably the collective known as the Black Talon, are extremely interested. The article you couriered from Mercury to Mars was a working example of an avian organism—proof of that particular lab’s bona fides—with, furthermore, Creator DNA sequences expressed in it. Whether they can fabricate a living Homo sapiens from scratch is questionable, but we fear the worst.

  “Jeeves Corporation works with various interested parties who are not on friendly terms with the aristo-dominated factions, and who are not in favor of permitting the manufacture of H. sapiens specimens at this time, especially given their propensity for autonomous reproduction. The Black Talon optimistically believe that they can manipulate their synthetic master once they have acquired him; we think they’re misguided at best. At worst, one would not consider the phrase ‘bringing about the downfall of civilization’ to be an exaggeration of the potential damage a rogue Creator could cause.

  “One has, however, been hampered in one’s work by a series of setbacks. It appears that at least one opposition faction has succeeded in penetrating our organization, either by suborning one of the junior partners or by inserting spies in the shape of a trusted employee. We are not sure of the mole’s identity, but we are certain that you are not implicated; neither was Juliette. One should add, she herself sent word of her own death—and a corrupted soul chip—some years ago, when she first started working undercover for me. It was only after the decision was made to try to recruit you, back on Venus, that Daks replaced the dummy chip in your graveyard with the real one that Juliette contributed.

  “After Juliette’s first chip was dispatched, we ran into difficulties. Certain events on Mars affected Juliette’s willingness to cooperate subsequently. Daks should have given you a copy of her most recent available soul chip, which we obtained without her knowledge. You may find the memories contained therein traumatic, but we believe reviewing them will help you maintain your own sense of purpose through the dark times ahead. It was taken less than a year ago, after her last, disastrous mission, shortly before she fled. If you see her, please remember—it’s not her fault. She is likely to behave irrationally in ways that are highly detrimental to our corporate and your personal interests, but we bear her no ill will—it was an unfortunate accident, and could have happened to anyone. We will help her if we can— therapy is available—but you must be aware that she could betray us to the Black Talon, and you should behave with appropriate caution if you meet her.”

  I swallow. Coming so soon after that disturbing memory-dream, Jeeves’s candid explanation is like a slap in the face. I suppose I should have realized that Jeeves’s activities weren’t simply illegal but verged on the political, but to have it rubbed in so blatantly is distressing.

  Stay out of politics is one of the oldest and deepest of Rhea’s injunctions. Politics is shit; it corrupts everything it touches, and getting involved in it only leads to misery and dissatisfaction. I’ve been gulled and manipulated into a conspiracy—worse still, one that appears to be directed against the return of my Dead Love’s kind—and worst of all, there’s no obvious way out because, damn him, Jeeves is right. Slavery by override chip is bad enough. Having a lineage of self-replicating pseudoaristos running around who can do that to us just by crooking a little finger doesn’t bear thinking about. I push on and try to take in the rest of Jeeves’s message. I know from experience that if I stop here, in the middle of the bad news, I won’t want to continue.

  “It would be sensible of you to continue trying to integrate Juliette’s most recent soul. You will need to be able to draw on her resources. But we hope you will take her sad fate as a warning. Loss of self-control is more than a mere personal failing, and her loss of self-control will be yours, if the conspirators succeed in obtaining a Creator-race specimen.

  “I
n other news, we have taken the liberty of booking passage for you aboard the Indefatigable, which departs for Jupiter system in two weeks’ time on a fast hyperbolic trajectory—the voyage will take less than one standard year. Your tickets will arrive shortly under separate cover, along with some advice on your cover identity. The Honorable Katherine Sorico is covered for first-class accommodation, but facilities on the Indefatigable are somewhat spartan, and we would not think any the worse of you should you choose to spend the largest part of the journey in hibernation. On arrival you may proceed directly to the public Jeeves Corporation office where the Jeeves-in-Residence will continue your briefing. Meanwhile, between now and your departure date, we have some additional minor errands to keep you busy. First of all, if you would be so good as to retrieve a small package from the office of the Green Diamond Import-Export Corporation on the corner of Hilbertstrasse and Morgensternplatz in Von Braun—they are expecting you by name—and personally deliver it into the hands of...”

  His instructions continue in interminable detail. I check my mail queue, and sure enough, there are a couple of other messages from Jeeves; one that consists of a list of places and times, and one with a detailed travel itinerary and ticket references attached. “Daks, you idiot!” I mutter aloud. Then I settle down to studying my assignments. At last I’ve got something to busy myself with, even if it’s only for a few days. I can worry about the big picture later, when there’s nothing better to do.

  Controlling Interest

  LATER, AS FREYA, I deepsleep again while my techné continues to make repairs and roll back Ferd’s hasty changes. I’m slowly reverting to the deeply embedded body plan that Dr. Murgatroyd created for me on Mercury. The subcutaneous scars are healing, setting me back in the semblance of Katherine Sorico. I’ve got to admit that even though the bishojo features feel strained, I’ve become more used to them than any of the other disguises I’ve worn. Meanwhile, I dream that I am Juliette.

  I’m drowsing in Pete’s arms, naked on a bed of fallen leaves in a green-roofed hothouse on Mars. We’re a-slime with each other’s secretions, elated and tired and in love, and I want the moment to last forever. I’m not stupid. I know I need to make my excuses and my escape; I shouldn’t be here, and every second I stay risks disaster. This is all a terrible mistake—it could jeopardize everything we’ve been working toward! But I’m torn. I want to hang on to him forever, to feel him with me always—and I’m determined not to lose him—but in the short term . . .

  “We could elope together,” I murmur.

  “I’d love to.” He nuzzles my earlobe and I close my eyes. “I want to be with you for eternity.”

  “Well, then”—I begin to pull away, thinking to sit up—“why don’t we?” It’s hard to concentrate while he’s around.

  "My lady is a jealous employer. If she thinks I’m disloyal ...”

  “But she’s only your employer! She doesn’t own you!” Does she? A sudden stab of fear ripples through me. Maybe I could buy him off her. But that’s a stupid thought. I know myself too well to think it could work.

  He touches a fingertip lightly on my lips; it seems only natural to kiss it, and that leads to another interruption. For some reason I just can’t help myself. Presently, however, he continues, even as I nuzzle at the base of his throat. “She’s much more dangerous than you realize, m’dear. She doesn’t own me, that’s true—but she could if she wanted to. Dashed nobs have the money and the corporate structure to sue me, or sue you, and keep us hog-tied in court until we burn through our capital and lapse into bankruptcy. Please don’t risk it! I’ll find a way to get away as soon as I can, you’ll see. I just need to make her think that shedding me is her own idea. Once I’m free, I’ll come to you—”

  “I don’t want to wait.” Trying to think is so frustrating! “We could leave now, I’ve got a spider: I know where to get you a new identity—”

  “I do want to be with you! But you underestimate m’lady—”

  There’s a sudden draft of chilly outside air as the door swings open. “Well! How absolutely fascinating.”

  I turn around as Pete sits up beside me. “I w-was showing her the orchids,” he says, stuttering faintly. He’s got Creator biomimicry, too; he flushes when he’s embarrassed.

  Eliza Lynch, the grand lady of Paraguay—or her present-day impersonator—is distinctly unimpressed. She stands in the doorway, antique peacock feather headdress nodding against the ceiling, and if looks could kill, the venom squeezing out of her blackly gleaming bishojo orbs in our direction would be enough to poison a city. “I’ll deal with you later,” she says coldly, and turns her head minutely to stare at me: “As for you, making free with my chattels—”

  I roll to my feet, skin hardening into defensive scales, but her bodyguards are already between us—dwarfish black-clad sadists, tittering as they unsheathe their power maces. “I don’t answer to you,” I throw in her face. “Let’s make this a matter of honor.”

  It’s sheer bravado—I’m genuinely afraid, my skin flushed and shivery. It’s bad enough that she’s on the verge of wigging out completely and ordering her arbeiter thugs to kill me, not to mention wrecking all my carefully laid long-term plans, but that’s trivial compared to the gaping horror that is the prospect of losing Pete so soon after I’ve found him. (And a sidelong glance shows me that I might be losing him already—he’s cringing away from my suddenly changing form. The love between us that burned so bright was sustained by our mutual pheromonal feedback. If I stand too far away to smell, will he reject me?)

  But she doesn’t seem to realize it’s a bluff. A sudden upward jerk of her chin. “I know who you claim to be, ‘Katherine Sorico.’ And I know what you are. Impostor,” she adds, for the benefit of the peanut gallery. “Get out of my house before I lose my temper, whelp!”

  I gape. She’s letting me go? I move to pick up my clothes, but she shakes her head, and there’s a guard standing before me, weapon raised. “Don’t push your luck.”

  I take a step back. She glides forward, into the greenhouse, and her guards circle with her, forcing me to retreat through the open doorway. Her face warps in a distorted smile. “I’ve got what you want, child. If you come back without my permission, I’ll break him in front of you—and then I’ll break you. Just remember that. Now get out before I change my mind.” Her smile turns ugly. “Remember, I know what you’re made of, Juliette.”

  I stumble out into the maze seething with anger and humiliation, dread, and a terrible new emotion I can’t quite name. The mission is a wash, but I have a new goal now. The only problem is, I’m not sure it’s one I can achieve ...

  AFTER I WAKE shuddering from that dream, sleeping is pretty much impossible. I feel stupid and tired. Am I going to need yet more cosmetic surgery? Certainly my current disguise is useless. (And why didn’t Juliette tell Jeeves that the Katherine Sorico identity was blown? Or did she? A paranoid corner of me wonders.) At least now I know why Stone and the Domina are after me. It was simply my bad luck she was on Venus, and he tagged me as Juliette’s kind. It’s so like an aristo to send her rival a message written in the dead flesh of an innocent sib.

  And as for the events aboard Pygmalion . . . I flash on a memory of the Domina, Pete’s owner. I’m certain, now, that she’s one of Granita’s sibs: they’re too much alike for it to be a coincidence. Granita, who casually seduced me in body if not soul, then ordered her minions to fire on my presumed location? I twitch. What have I stumbled into? If Granita has told her sister the Domina that she met Katherine Sorico on a Mars-bound liner, and they successfully tagged me as Maria Montes Kuo, then—

  Why does Jeeves want me to run errands for weeks, until the Indefatigable is ready to leave, using a blown cover identity?

  I’m pacing around the bedroom like a clockwork toy, chewing on a knuckle as I think furiously. I don’t like the shape of this. I mean, I really don’t like it. If I was a nasty paranoid person like Juliette, I’d think Jeeves was trying to set me up. Havin
g me charge around all over my enemy’s home territory, looking very much like the sib she swore vengeance on? That’s not funny! But . . . what’s in it for Jeeves? I can’t see any reason why he’d want me dead—if so, why the elaborate setup? And who’s trying to sue me into a hole in the ground and establish a claim on my body?

  He’s using me as bait. Or, he’s the mole in the organization.

  Neither prospect is reassuring. But I need that ticket out to Jupiter, don’t I? If I head back to, say, Earth, there’s no telling which of the Domina’s sibs will run across me next—or which of their bodyguards, the flamboyant aristo thugs or the munchkin space ninjas she leans toward. I’ve done surprisingly well to stay alive so far—but mostly because I’ve had help. If I cut and run on Jeeves, I might not be so lucky next time.

  I sit down on the bed and think furiously. Can I do it without exposing myself? I summon up Jeeves’s letter and read it again. Then I double-check the travel itinerary. He wants me to run some errands around places as far apart as Carter City and Lowell and . . . Yes, one of me thinks, this could work.

  And so I begin to plot.

  THE NEXT DAY, good-time Kate checks out of the decrepit hotel and hops aboard a slow southbound train. The train makes numerous stops en route to the destination she paid for, near the south polar city of Bougainville. She is no longer aboard by that point. Maria Montes Kuo—who is presumably on several watch lists—boards a suborbital to Fashoda, a maglev to Maxwell, and a train to Tribeca. I do none of these things and in fact buy a battered thirdhand spider with money from the wallet of Jennifer Sixt, one of the flimsier of Jeeves’s courier identities.

  Did I say that Mars is big? Three days later, exhausted and sleepless and with every joint in my body shaken half-loose from the off-road driving, I ride my spider into the outskirts of Hellasport, nearly three thousand kilometers from where I bought the craft. I’ve had lots of time to think and brood and read and reread my instructions from Jeeves. And I’ve decided that if he wants cages rattling, then I’m going to really make them rattle—but not at the price of letting myself fall into the Domina’s hands.