Nancy Kress - Beggars 2 - Beggars and Choosers

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BEGGARS & CHOOSERS

or portions thereof, in any form.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Edited by David G. Hartwell

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, N.Y. 10010

Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

Design by Lynn Newmark

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Kress, Nancy.

Beggars & Choosers / Nancy Kress.

p. cm.

"A Tom Doherty Associates book."

ISBN 0-312-85749-7 (hardcover)

PS3561.R46B38 1994

813'.54—dc20 94-21753

CIP

First edition: October 1994

Printed in the United States of America

0 9 8 7 6 5 4321

To Miriam Grace Monfredo

and Mary Stanton

without whose friendship in a bad time

this book would not have been finished.

Prologue

2106

he clanging of the priority-one override alarm ripped

through the cavernous backstage dressing room. Drew

Aden, the only occupant, jerked his head toward the holo-

terminal beside his dressing table. The screen registered his retina

scan and Leisha Camden's face appeared.

"Drew! Have you heard?"

The man in the powerchair, upper body fanatically muscled

above his crippled legs, turned back to putting on his eye makeup.

He leaned into the dressing table mirror. "Heard what?"

"Did you see the six o'clock Times?"

"Leisha, I go on stage in fifteen minutes. I haven't listened to

anything." He heard the thickening in his own voice, and hoped

she didn't. Even after all this time. Even at just the sight of her

holo.

"Miranda and the Supers . . . Miranda . . . Drew, they've built

an entire island. Off the coast of Mexico. Using nanotech and the

atoms in seawater, and almost overnight!"

"An island," Drew repeated. He frowned into the mirror,

rubbed at his makeup, applied more.

"Not a floating construct. An actual island, that goes all the

way down to the continental shelf. Did you know about this?"

"Leisha, I have a concert in fifteen minutes . . ."

"You did, didn't you. You knew what Miranda was doing. Why

didn't you tell me?"

Drew turned his powerchair to face Leisha's golden hair, green

eyes, genemod perfect skin. She looked thirty-five. She was ninety-

eight years old.

He said, "Why didn't Miranda tell you?"

Leisha's expression quieted. "You're right. It was Miranda's

place to tell me. And she didn't. There's a lot she doesn't tell me,

isn't there, Drew?"

A long moment passed before Drew said softly, "It isn't easy

being on the outside for a change, is it, Leisha?"

She said, equally softly, "You've waited a long time to be able

to say that to me, haven't you, Drew?"

He looked away. In the corner of the huge silent room some-

thing rustled: a mouse, or a defective 'bot.

Leisha said, "Are they moving to this new island? All twenty-

seven Supers?"

"Yes."

"No one in the scientific community even knew nanotech had

reached that capability."

"Nobody else's nanotech has."

Leisha said, "They're not going to let me on that island, are

they? At all?"

He listened to the complex undertones in her voice. Leisha's

generation of Sleepless, the first generation, could never hide their

feelings. Unlike Miranda's generation, who could hide anything.

"No," Drew said. "They're not."

"They'll shield the island with something that Terry Mwa-

kambe invents, and you'll be the only non-Super ever allowed to

know what they're doing there."

He didn't answer. A technician stuck his head diffidently in

the door. "Ten minutes, Mr. Arlen, sir."

"Yes. I'm coming."

"Huge crowd tonight, sir. All pumped up."

"Yes. Thank you." The tech's head disappeared.

"Drew," Leisha said, her voice splintering. "She's as much a

daughter to me as you were a son . . . what is Miranda planning

out on that island?"

"I don't know," Drew said, and it was both a lie and not a lie,

in ways that Leisha could never understand. "Leisha, I have to be

on stage in nine minutes."

"Yes," Leisha said wearily. "I know. You're the Lucid

Dreamer."

Drew stared again at her holo-image: the lovely curve of cheek,

the unaging Sleepless skin, the suspicion of water in the green

eyes. She had been the most important person in his world, and

in the larger public world. And now, although she didn't know it

yet, she was obsolete.

"Yes," he said. "That's right. I'm the Lucid Dreamer."

The holostage blanked, and he went back to his makeup for

the stage.

JULY 2114

Concern for man himself and his fate

must always form the chief interest of all

technical endeavors, concern for the great

unsolved problems of the organization of

labor and the distribution of goods—in

order that the creations of our mind shall be

a blessing and not a curse to mankind.

—Albert Einstein, address to California

Institute of Technology, 1931

One

IANA

OVINGTON

: S

RANCISCO

or some of us, of course, nothing would be enough. That

sentence can be taken two ways, can't it? But I don't mean

that having nothing would ever be satisfactory to us. It isn't

even satisfactory to Livers, no matter what pathetic claims they

lay to an "aristo life of leisure." Yes. Right. There isn't a

single one of us that doesn't know better. We donkeys could always

recognize seething dissatisfaction. We saw it daily in the mirror.

My IQ wasn't boosted as high as Paul's.

My parents couldn't afford all the genemods Aaron got.

My company hasn't made it as big as Karen's.

My skin isn't as small-pored as Gina's.

My constituency is more demanding than Luke's. Do the blood-

sucking voters think I'm made of money?

My dog is less cutting-edge genemod than Stephanie's dog.

It was, in fact, Stephanie's dog that made me decide to change

my life. I know how that sounds. There's nothing about the start

of my service with the Genetic Standards Enforcement Agency

that doesn't sound ridiculous. Why not start with Stephanie's dog?

It brings a certain satiric panache to the story. I could dine out

on it for months.

If, of course, anyone were ever going to dine out again.

Panache is such a perishable quality.

Stephanie brought her dog to my apartment in the Bayview

Security Enclave on a Sunday morning in July. The day before,

I'd bought pots of new flowers from BioForms in Oakland and

they cascaded over the terrace railing, a riot of blues much more

varied than the colors of San Francisco Bay, six stories below.

Cobalt, robin's egg, aquamarine, azure, cyan, turquoise, cerulean.

I lay on my terrace chaise, eating anise cookies and studying my

flowers. The gene geniuses had shaped each blossom into a soft

fluttery tube with a domed end. The blossoms were quite long.

Essentially, my terrace frothed with flaccid, blue, vegetable

penises. David had moved out a week ago.

"Diana," Stephanie said, through the Y-energy shield spanning

the space between my open French doors. "Knock knock."

"How'd you get into the apartment?" I said, mildly annoyed.

I hadn't given Stephanie my security code. I didn't like her enough.

"Your code's broken. It's on the police net. Thought you'd

like to know." Stephanie was a cop. Not with the district police,

which was rough and dirty work down among the Livers. Not our

Stephanie. She owned a company that furnished patrol 'bots for

enclave security. She designed the 'bots herself. Her firm, which

was spectacularly successful, held contracts with a sizable number

of San Francisco enclaves, although not with mine. Telling me my

code was on the 'bot net was her ungraceful way of needling me

because my enclave used a different police force.

I lounged back on my chaise and reached for my drink. The

closest blue flowers yearned toward my hand.

"You're giving them an erection," Stephanie said, walking

through the French doors. "Oh, anise cookies! Mind if I give one

to Katous?"

The dog followed her from the cool dimness of my apartment

and stood blinking and sniffing in the bright sunshine. It was

clearly, aggressively, illegally genemod. The Genetic Standards

Enforcement Agency may allow fanciful tinkering with flowers,

but not with animal phyla higher than fish. The rules are very clear,

backed up by court cases whose harsh financial penalties make

them even clearer. No genemods that cause pain. No genemods

that create weaponry, in its broadest definition. No genemods that

"alter external appearance or basic internal functioning such that

a creature deviates significantly from other members of not only

its species but also its breed." A collie may pace and single-foot,

but it better still look like Lassie.

And never, never, never any genemod that is inheritable. No-

body wants another fiasco like the Sleepless. Even my penile flow-

ers were sterile. And genemod human beings, we donkeys, were

all individually handcrafted, in vitro one-of-a-kind collector's

items. Such is order maintained in our orderly world. So saith

Supreme Court Chief Justice Richard J. Milano, writing the ma-

jority opinion for Linbeckerv. Genetic Standards Enforcement Agency.

Humanity must not be altered past recognition, lest we lose what

it means to be human. Two hands, one head, two eyes, two legs,

a functioning heart, the necessity to breathe and eat and shit, this

is humanity in perpetuity. We are the human beings.

Or, in this case, the dogs. And yet here was Stephanie, theo-

retically an officer of the law, standing on my terrace flanked by

a prison-sentence GSEA violation in pink fur. Katous had four

adorable pink ears, identically cocked, aural Rockettes. It had an

adorable pink fur rabbit's tail. It had huge brown eyes, three times

the size of any dog's eyes Justice Milano would approve, giving it

a soulful, sorrowing look. It was so adorable and vulnerable-

looking I wanted to kick it.

Which might have been the point. Although that, too, might

be construed as illegal. No modifications that cause pain.

"I heard that David moved out," Stephanie said, crouching to

feed an anise cookie to the quivering pink fur. Oh so casual—just

a girl and her dog, my illegal genemod pet, I live on the edge like

this all the time, doncha know. I wondered if Stephanie knew that

"Katous" was Arabic for "cat." Of course she did.

"David moved out," I agreed. "We came to the place where

the road forked."

"And who's next on your road?"

"Nobody." I sipped my drink without offering Stephanie one.

"I thought I'd live alone for a while."

"Really." She touched an aquamarine flower; it wrapped its

soft tubular petal around her finger. Stephanie grinned. "Quel

dommage. What about that German software dealer you talked to

such a long time at Paul's party?"

"What about your dog?" I said pointedly. "Isn't he pretty illegal

for a cop's pet?"

"But so cute. Katous, say hello to Diana."

"Hello," Katous said.

Slowly I lowered my glass from my mouth.

Dogs couldn't talk. The vocal equipment didn't allow it, the

law didn't allow it, the canine IQ didn't allow it. Yet Katous's

growled "hello" was perfectly clear. Katous could talk.

Stephanie lounged against the French doors, enjoying the

effect of her bombshell. I would have given anything to be able

to ignore it, to go on with a neutral, uninterested conversation. I

could not manage that.

"Katous," I said, "how old are you?"

The dog gazed at me from enormous sorrowful eyes.

"Where do you live, Katous?"

No answer.

"Are you genemod?"

No answer.

"Is Katous a dog?"

Was there a shade of sad puzzlement in its brown eyes?

"Katous, are you happy?"

Stephanie said, "His vocabulary is only twenty-two words. Al-

though he understands more than that."

"Katous, would you like a cookie? Cookie, Katous?"

He wagged his ridiculous tail and pranced in place. There were

no claws on his toes. "Cookie! Please!"

I held out a cookie, which was from the Proust's Madelines

franchise and were wonderful: crunchy, fragrant with anise, rich

with butter. Katous took it with toothless pink gums. "Thank you,

lady!"

I looked at Stephanie. "He can't defend himself. And he's a

mental cripple, smart enough to talk but not smart enough to

understand his world. What's the point?"

"What's the point of your spermatic flowers? God, they're

salacious. Did David give them to you? They're wonderful."

"David didn't give them to me."

"You bought them yourself? After he left, I would guess. A

replacement?"

"A reminder of male fallibility."

Stephanie laughed. She knew I was lying, of course. David was

never fallible in that department. Or any other. His leaving was

my fault. I am not an easy person to live with. I needle, pry, argue,

search compulsively for weaknesses to match my own. Worse, I

only admit this well after the fact. I looked away from Stephanie

and gazed through a gap in the flowers at San Francisco Bay, my

drink frosty in my hand.

It is, I suppose, a serious flaw in my character that I can't stand

to be in the same room for ten minutes with people like Stephanie.

She's intelligent, successful, funny, daring. Men fall all over her,

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BEGGARS&CHOOSERSICopyright©1994byNancyKressAllrightsreserved,includingtherighttoreproducethisbook,orportionsthereof,inanyform.Thisbookisprintedonacid-freepaper.EditedbyDavidG.HartwellATorBookPublishedbyTomDohertyAssociates,Inc.175FifthAvenueNewYork,N.Y.10010Tor®isaregisteredtrademarkofTomDohertyAsso...

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