Part 16 (1/2)
She reached between her legs and pulled the baby to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. They were huge now, and very sore.
”We will call him Owen,” she said.
begot And Mada begot Enos and Felicia and Malaleel and Ralph and Jared and Elisa and Tharsis and Masahiko and Thema and Seema and Casper and Hevila and Djanka and Jennifer and Jojo and Regma and Elvis and Irina and Dean and Marget and Karoly and Sabatha and Ashley and Siobhan and Mei-Fung and Neil and Gupta and Hans and Sade and Moon and Randy and Genevieve and Bob and n.a.z.ia and Eiichi and Justine and Ozma and Khaled and Candy and Pavel and Isaac and Sandor and Veronica and Gao and Pat and Marcus and Zsa Zsa and Li and Rebecca.
Seven years after her return to Trueborn, Mada rested.
ever after Mada was convinced that she was not a particularly good mother, but then she had been designed for courage and quick-thinking, not nurturing and patience. It wasn't the crying or the dirty diapers or the spitting-up, it was the utter uselessness of the babies that the revolutionary in her could not abide. And her maternal instincts were often skewed. She would offer her children the wrong toy or cook the wrong dish, fall silent when they wanted her to play, prod them to talk when they needed to withdraw. Mada and the s.h.i.+p had calculated that fifty of her genetically manipulated offspring would provide the necessary diversity to repopulate Trueborn. After Rebecca was born, Mada was more than happy to stop having children.
Although the children seemed to love her despite her awkwardness, Mada wasn't sure she loved them back. She constantly teased at her feelings, peeling away what she considered pretense and sentimentality. She worried that the capacity to love might not have been part of her emotional design. Or perhaps begetting fifty children in seven years had left her numb.
Owen seemed to enjoy being a parent. He was the one whom the children called for when they wanted to play. They came to Mada for answers and decisions. Mada liked to watch them snuggle next to him when he spun his fantastic stories. Their father picked them up when they stumbled, and let them climb on his shoulders so they could see just what he saw. They told him secrets they would never tell her.
The children adored the s.h.i.+p, which substantiated a bot companion for each of them, in part for their protection. All had inherited their father's all-but-invulnerable immune system; their chromosomes replicated well beyond the Hayflick limit with integrity and fidelity. But they lacked their mother's ability to flow tissue and were therefore at peril of drowning or breaking their necks. The bots also provided the intense individualized attention that their busy parents could not. Each child was convinced that his or her bot companion had a unique personality. Even the seven-year-olds were too young to realize that the bots were reflecting their ideal personality back at them. The bots were in general as intelligent as the s.h.i.+p, although it had programmed into their DIs a touch of naivete and a tendency to literalness that allowed the children to play tricks on them. Pranking a brother or sister's bot was a particularly delicious sport.
Athens had begun to sprawl after seven years. The library had tripled in size and grown a wing of cla.s.srooms and workshops. A new gym overlooked three playing fields. Owen had asked the s.h.i.+p to build a little theater where the children could put on shows for each other. The original house became a ring of houses, connected by corridors and facing a central courtyard. Each night Mada and Owen moved to their bedroom in a different house. Owen thought it important that the children see them sleeping in the same bed; Mada went along.After she had begotten Rebecca, Mada needed something to do that didn't involve the children. She had the s.h.i.+p's farmbots plow up a field and for an hour each day she tended it. She resisted Owen's attempts to name this ”Mom's Hobby.” Mada grew vegetables; she had little use for flowers. Although she made a specialty of root crops, she was not a particularly accomplished gardener. She did, however, enjoy weeding.
It was at these quiet times, her hands flicking across the dark soil, that she considered her commitment to the Three Universal Rights. After two-tenths of a spin, she had clearly lost her zeal. Not for the first, that independent sentients had the right to remain individual. Mada was proud that her children were as individual as any intelligence, flesh or machine, could have made them. Of course, they had no pressing need to exercise the second right of manipulating their physical structures-she had taken care of that for them. When they were of age, if the s.h.i.+p wanted to introduce them to molecular engineering, that could certainly be done. No, the real problem was that downwhen was forever closed to them by the ident.i.ty mine. How could she justify her new Trueborn society if it didn't enjoy the third right: free access to the timelines?
undone ”Mada!” Owen waved at the edge of her garden. She blinked; he was wearing the same clothes he'd been wearing when she had first seen him on Sonnet Street in front of The Devil's Apple-down to the little red cape. He showed her a picnic basket. ”The s.h.i.+p is watching the kids tonight,” he called. ”Come on, it's our anniversary. I did the calculations myself. We met eight Earth years ago today.”
He led her to a spot deep in the woods, where he spread a blanket. They stretched out next to each other and sorted through the basket. There was a curley salad with alperts and thumbnuts, brain-boy and chive sandwiches on cheese bread. He toasted her with Mada-fruit wine and told her that Siobhan had let go of the couch and taken her first step and that Irina wanted everyone to learn to play an instrument so that she could conduct the family orchestra and that Malaleel had asked him just today if s.h.i.+p was a person.
”It's not a person,” said Mada. ”It's a DI.”
”That's what I said.” Owen peeled the crust off his cheese bread. ”And he said if it's not a person, how come it's telling jokes?”
”It told a joke?”
”It asked him, 'How come you can't have everything?' and then it said, 'Where would you put it?'”
She nudged him in the ribs. ”That sounds more like you than the s.h.i.+p.”
”I have a present for you,” he said after they were stuffed. ”I wrote you a poem.” He did not stand; there were no large, flailing gestures. Instead he slid the picnic basket out of the way, leaned close and whispered into her ear.
”Loving you is like catching rain on my tongue.
You bathe the leaves, soak indifferent ground;Why then should I get so little of you?
Yet still, like a flower with a fool's face, I open myself to the sky.”
Mada was not quite sure what was happening to her; she had never really cried before. ”I like that it doesn't rhyme.” She had understood that tears flowed from a sadness. ”I like that a lot.” She sniffed and smiled and daubed at edges of her eyes with a napkin. ”Never rhyme anything again.”
”Done,” he said.
Mada watched her hand reach for him, caress the side of his neck, and then pull him down on top of her.
Then she stopped watching herself.
”No more children.” His whisper seemed to fill her head.
”No,” she said, ”no more.”
”I'm sharing you with too many already.” He slid his hand between her legs. She arched her back and guided him to her pleasure.
When they had both finished, she ran her finger through the sweat cooling at the small of his back and then licked it. ”Owen,” she said, her voice a silken purr. ”That was the one.”
”Is that your comment?”
”No.” She craned to see his eyes. ”This is my comment,” she said. ”You're writing love poems to the wrong person.”
”There is no one else,” he said.
She squawked and pushed him off her. ”That may be true,” she said, laughing, ”but it's not something you're supposed to say.”
”No, what I meant was . . .”
”I know.” She put a finger to his lips and giggled like one of her babies. Mada realized then how dangerously happy she was. She rolled away from Owen; all the lightness crushed out of her by the weight of guilt and shame. It wasn't her duty to be happy. She had been ready to betray the cause of those who had made her for what? For this man? ”There's something I have to do.” She fumbled for her s.h.i.+ft. ”I can't help myself, I'm sorry.”
Owen watched her warily. ”Why are you sorry?”
”Because after I do it, I'll be different.”
”Different how?”
”The s.h.i.+p will explain.” She tugged the s.h.i.+ft on. ”Take care of the children.”
”What do you mean, take care of the children? What are you doing?” He lunged at her and she scrabbled away from him on all fours. ”Tell me.””The s.h.i.+p says my body should survive.” She staggered to her feet. ”That's all I can offer you, Owen.”
Mada ran.
She didn't expect Owen to come after her-or to run so fast.