by Kathy Tyers
“I do.” He spoke as solemnly as a bridegroom taking his vows.
“Why?”
Lindon fingered his mug’s glazed handle. “For one thing, He made the claim on record. CUF doesn’t often quote that. Your former church stresses all the wrong things. Your mother thinks she’ll win eternal life by hard work and legalism. It isn’t done that way.”
The strength of her defensive reaction surprised her. Evidently she did still believe—somewhere deep inside. “You aren’t going to conquer Goddard without hard work,” she pointed out.
“All I’ve seen here only proves that humankind doesn’t change. That’s my chief difficulty with the Noetics and your mother’s church. Both make Homo sapiens something to worship.”
Do it, urged the inner voice. Tell him you admire him. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain. Instead, she leaned against the wall and took another large mouthful of the steaming nut-brown roll.
“Are those bacteria from the polar clouds working out?” He seemed not to sense her silent struggle—or was this just his impeccable manners?
“Too early to tell much.” Glad to change the subject, she explained the beginning she’d made. Melantha Lee’s financial threat seemed too absurd to mention.
Nodding, he wiped his hands with a cloth. “I hope . . . If there’s anything else I can do to facilitate your research, don’t hesitate to ask.”
There might not be much he could do anymore. The election defeat had to weigh heavily on his mind.
He pivoted on his bench to face her. “About your mother, Graysha.”
On to the next uncomfortable subject. “Go ahead,” she said, bracing herself.
“What—” he began, then he pressed his lips together and flicked a loose thread on his pale blue shirt. “What promise, what assurance can you give me that anything you’ve learned about my people will not find its way back to her?”
Not so difficult a question as she expected, but much more direct. He looked straight into her eyes, as if daring her to turn away.
“You have my word already,” she said.
“That was forced from you.”
A shiver started at her fingertips, passed up her arms, and dissipated through her shoulders. “Then I’ll repeat it. I am finished with my mother and her schemes. Through. I would love to be reconciled to her someday,” she admitted, “but only on my own terms. I swear it, Lindon.” Shouldn’t she tell him exactly how she felt and be done with it? If he laughed her off, she wouldn’t have to fight her feelings anymore. “I . . . need to tell you something personal.”
He cocked one eyebrow. On him, it was not a mocking expression.
“I assume you know you’re easy to look at,” she said, rushing ahead, surprised to realize that a part of her heart wanted to test him, to see if she could push him away. “I admire you, and I enjoy your company. So tell me. Is that love?”
His soft exhalation sounded like the surprised ghost of a laugh. “A lot of people think so.” He cleared his throat. “It’s certainly part of love.”
She pressed her shoulders against the bench’s hard backrest. “I realize that wasn’t graceful. I’m sorry. But in my lifetime, there won’t be time to waste playing social games.”
“Thank you,” he murmured. “It’s an awkward situation, isn’t it? The closer you and I become, the more of a danger we pose to each other.” He stared. His lips twitched, first frowning, then relaxing. He looked as if he were struggling with some decision. After several seconds, those firmed lips softened. “Have you ever considered remarriage?”
Good heavens! The rules to this game were changing too quickly to follow. Her cheeks flamed. “I have,” she managed.
Dark eyes flicked up to meet hers for an instant, and then he dropped his stare again. “Assume for a moment—hypothetical situation—that your health would let you remain on Goddard, with or without Gaea. If you could choose a job, what would it be?”
At least that one was easy to answer. “I’m only masquerading as a researcher. I’m a teacher.”
He looked up, arching one eyebrow again. “We need teachers, particularly those trained in sciences at the university level. Our children are the future of Goddard.”
“You’re not CCA anymore,” she said bluntly, wondering whether she spoke out of defensiveness or sheer perversity. “You don’t have to talk like a chairman. Any children I have will carry a genefect.”
Shutting his eyes, he tapped one finger on the tabletop. “You want children, though, don’t you?”
Graysha clenched her hands. “I was only deluding myself, trying to think I accepted EB standards for my life. I hate the notion of becoming an outlaw, but . . .” She trailed off, shaking her head.
Lindon looked straight into her eyes. “I think you’ve guessed what I’m about to tell you.”
She almost stopped breathing. She imagined she could feel magma moving deep under Goddard’s surface, the world slowly rotating, the swift sweep of Eps Eri orbiting the home galaxy’s center.
His dark, bright eyes didn’t waver. “We have a clinic on Goddard. It is as illegal as your wishes. It’s possible, but not guaranteed, that we could help you . . . your children, anyway.”
She bowed her head and covered her eyes with one hand, turning somersaults inside. It was true!
He reached across the table for her free hand and held it, caressing her palm with his rough thumb. That made her want touches she’d lived without for far too long. Warning sirens roared at the back of her mind. She lowered her voice. “What are you?” she whispered.
“It started innocently enough,” he said softly, “with a study of certain families that seemed immune to most cancers.”
Graysha’s body went stiff, and her breaths came shallow. He really was going to confess!
“Dr. Lwu—Palila Lwu, not her husband—was able to isolate several fragile loci, strengthen supporting chromosomes, and to some extent, suppress the body’s predisposition to die at around 120 years. She also worked with programmed cell death—apoptosis, they call it. She really did believe in nonaggression, but truly, she felt that increased longevity was the key. She hoped it would decrease the species’ tendency toward self-destruction. And my parents—my grandparents, too—believed her.”
Palila Lwu was the one they named themselves after? “Longevity?” she asked.
He dipped his chin.
“Just how long do you expect to live?”
“The second-generation average is 152 terrannums,” he answered softly.
Graysha groaned. So long . . .
Yet not that long, objectively speaking. “For an extra thirty terrannums—what, 20 percent?—you’re risking so much.”
Lindon’s clenching hand relaxed, and she adjusted her fingers more comfortably. “Our people are working to extend it.”
“You still have genetic diseases, like diabetes.”
“Exactly. It’s controllable, so that work is prioritized to the next generation, after we finish cleaning up deadlier hab-based mutations.”
She nodded. Like mine. Did any Lwuites carry Flaherty’s genes?
“It’s genetically possible,” he continued, “that humans could live for centuries. It’s just not good for us, and I believe that with all my heart. If we were genetic immortals, we’d be so frightened of taking risks we’d spend eternity hiding, accomplishing nothing. The concept of life after death is healthier for the psyche.”
So he’d been given a gift he could not give back. Plainly, it troubled his conscience.
“But if the Eugenics Board finds us . . .” Trailing off, he spread his empty hand.
“I know.” His reaction to the Endedi case made bitter sense. Graysha felt a second chill. “Are any of the modifications dominant?”
“All recessive, like most altered genes. Six chromosome pairs are involved.”
She nodded. “Are you homozygous?”
“You singular, or you plural?”
“Both.”
&n
bsp; “I am fully homozygous, with all twelve altered chromosomes. About half of us are. About a quarter heterozygous carriers, about a quarter non-carriers. But at the clinic, we’re working on a better percentage for the next generation.”
“That won’t create conflicts with your own generation?”
His hand shifted again, and he let her go. Delicately, he fingered the kitten-soft edge of her pullover’s cuff. “What do you think?”
One face sprang into her mind, a sudden epiphany. “Ari MaiJidda,” she guessed, suddenly understanding the D-group coordinator at several new levels. “Heterozygous, jealous, and as aggressive as a killer bee. Since you’ve admitted this much, tell me how Palila Lwu eluded the Eugenics Board for long enough to create . . . what, fifteen thousand of you?”
“Eight thousand in the first generation. Her husband had a large staff. He was working on something else, you’ll remember. Fetal work late in pregnancy, thwarting sexual dimorphism as expressed in the corpus callosum. That much is public knowledge.”
“As Ari MaiJidda would be pleased to remind us all. I’m deeply impressed so many people kept such an incredible secret.”
“They were incredibly motivated. Look at their choices—”
“Oh yes,” she interrupted. “Full-body irradiation for themselves and all their children if they spoke up. Otherwise, long life and a hope for peace.”
“Only a hope, though.”
She kept thinking. “Did that town-meeting discussion swing the election to Ari?”
“Maybe. That, and my public insistence that your site supervisor knows more than she’s admitting about the cooling. I’m supposedly responsible for a number of retaliatory restrictions.”
“Ouch. So says Chair MaiJidda, I assume.”
“Yes.”
“I see.” Graysha clasped her hands, remembering how gently his rough hands stroked them, then she forcibly focused her thoughts on this conversation. Whether or not he should speak, Lindon was answering questions. “Do you admire Palila Lwu and her husband?”
“Yes,” he said.
“But doesn’t their work conflict with your beliefs?”
“Did you ever read how vigorously some people opposed organ transplants? We’ve all but forgotten their objections.”
Interesting. “Do you honestly feel that the callosal work has outlasted its usefulness?”
“Absolutely. Taidje FreeLand, of the CA committee, is one of Henri Lwu’s last surviving co-workers, and he is almost convinced, as well.”
So one reason they came here was to drop a deception and concentrate on another one. “You—a Christian—have to live inside a circle of lies.” Did he dare deny that?
Nodding, he covered her hands with his own. “Sometimes we have to choose not to follow human law. Now that I’ve lost re-election, I’m free to express doubts I had all along. With all our so-called medical advances, we are still muddled, selfish people.” He pulled his hands away. “Does it disturb you to know what I am, Graysha?”
She leaned her head back against the wall, glanced up at the ceiling, and confessed. “Only out of jealousy. I can’t imagine what it would be like.”
Lindon shook his head. “You have about twenty terrannums?”
“More or less.”
“If you were isolated from medical care, how much would that shorten your life expectancy?”
“It shouldn’t,” she admitted. “I’ll have adequate warning before I reach terminal hospitalization phase.”
“Will you think about settling here?”
She mulled over his question carefully before deciding it wasn’t a marriage proposal after all. “It’s terribly far out,” she said in a low voice. “You were right about that all along. I’m fine for now, but eventually I’ll need full-time care.”
“When that time comes, steps can be taken. Please consider it,” he said, pressing down on her hands, “so we can consider helping you.”
She was still free to leave, even free to report this man to her mother. Stricken by the thought, she shuddered. “It’s possible you would have to protect me from the Eugenics Board.”
“I would,” he said.
“Oh,” she murmured, then she realized Lindon had given someone else real grounds to eliminate her. “What will happen if Chair MaiJidda finds out what you just told me?”
“That will depend,” he said soberly, “on how good you really are at keeping secrets.”
She shifted her hands so she could grip his. “So, Lindon—how much does a person really need to understand before they can buy into this faith of yours?”
He drew away from her, wide-eyed, plainly startled.
Go on, she urged herself again. Try it on. This could be your last chance. “If the way you treat people is any sign of what old-line Christianity is about, I could just about sign on.”
He exhaled hard, shaking his head. “Don’t look to me for an example. Don’t ever—” Abruptly, he pulled his hands away. A sudden clear smile spread across his face. “Oh, Graysha, forgive me for arguing. All you need is to admit your flawed nature—”
“No problem with that,” she said lightly.
“And accept salvation as Christ’s gift, not anything you could earn.”
“Aha,” she murmured. “Here, you and my mother’s church part company.”
He nodded.
“Anything else?”
“That’s where we all start.”
She shut her eyes. All right, then. Here I am. As imperfect as anyone ever born. And there he sits, and I am not doing this just to please him! At least, she added, slitting one eye open, not exclusively. But if you want to give eternity as a gift, I would love to come home to you. Show me what to do next.
Sighing heavily, she opened her eyes. “Now what?”
“Did you?” He leaned forward over the table, as earnest as she’d ever seen him.
She nodded.
He seized her hand. “Now we rejoice.” To her astonishment, he drew her to her feet. “Let me walk you back to the hub.”
Suicide Gene
Two minutes after Lindon’s congregation dispersed, someone knocked at the door of Ari MaiJidda’s apartment. Startled, she shoved the vest she was embroidering back behind her soft chair. “Come,” she called, deactivating the lock from where she sat.
A woman slipped in. Ari recognized her from D-group. “I just saw something you’ll want to know about,” the stranger began.
Five minutes later, she had gone and Ari sat rigid on her chair. She already knew Brady-Phillips hadn’t flown off with LZalle—and that disappointment was cruel enough—but now the worst had happened. DalLierx had taken her to his church. And even worse was about to happen. Information concerning the Lwuites’ actual religious practices, or lack of them, was about to pass from Lindon DalLierx to Commissioner Novia Brady-Phillips by way of the smoothest intermediary the Eugenics Board could have sent. News of that sort fairly flew—witness the visit she’d just had.
She pushed up out of her chair, clenching and unclenching her hands. If only she could shoot the woman and be done with it!
No, it must be absolutely, unimpeachably accidental—or suicidal—and immediate. That shuttle coming for Varberg must carry Brady-Phillips away too, dead or alive.
Alive? If Yael GurEshel could be convinced to frame an evacuation-to-hospitalize order . . .
No. Surely Brady-Phillips already knew too much.
How close were they?
Close enough for the pretty boy to agree to marry her. The relationship was accelerating toward consummation.
And Paul Ilizarov hadn’t been her would-be assassin, after all. It had been crazy-man Varberg. That disappointed her, but she would sleep it off. Varberg could be managed into bringing that atmospheric organism under control, particularly if his choices were to cooperate or be prosecuted for kidnapping. She would save the attempted murder charge as a final threat and use it only if necessary.
Ari sh
uffled back to her chair and carefully sat down in the dark. Tissue oxygen. She remembered reading about something that bound up tissue oxygen.
Carbon monoxide! The gas was greedy to bind hemoglobin, and though no longer plentiful in this post-petrofuel age, it was available.
And—most important, if her victim was to be Graysha Brady-Phillips—odorless.
―――
Lindon hadn’t fallen asleep, though midnight had passed. He lay staring at the skylight, his mind tugging in three directions. Perhaps Sarai slept, frightened but safe. Axis’s future lay in Ari’s hands now, not his, though he’d left so much undone.
And then there was Graysha!
Guide her, Lord. Don’t let her lean on me. He had said far too much, from a human standpoint—but then look what happened!
Yes, but what if she chose not to settle? His confession would put fifteen thousand people at risk.
Did he do the right thing? Was one soul worth more than the future of a world?
His message alarm sang out.
Distracted, he crossed the room and read, +Chenny HoNin. Security transmission. Please enter net password.+
This might be terrible news. His heart thudded as he keyed in his code.
Now letters appeared successively, indicating spontaneous transmission. +Re your news about Will Varberg and the charge of attempted murder, I agree. He makes a likely suspect. Would like to try an arrest. It will mean breaking into Varbergs’ room. Some danger to Sarai inevitable. Want your permission before we try it. HoBraces’, too.+
His mind’s eye created a horrible image: Sarai, caged with a man who didn’t shy from trying murder. What would Varberg do if Chenny’s forces tried to break in?
He scratched his scalp, remembering that Varberg’s wife was also in that room. She was a mother, a steadying influence who might protect Sarai and Merria.
On the other hand, Varberg dominated her to an unwholesome degree.
He reached for the keyboard. +How soon do you need permission?+
+We want to try before dawn, when we hope they’ll be sleeping.+
+I’ll be back within an hour.+
+Thank you, Lindon.+
The screen darkened. Lindon felt haggard and helpless. Should he ask them to wait, hoping Varberg would release the girls when his shuttle came? Varberg might decide to keep a hostage for travel, but it would be easier for police to snatch them en route to a shuttle than from a closed room.