Charles Stross: MP 6 -The Trade of Queens

Unlike

the Clan, Mendelian genetics had made a late arrival—and actual modern reproductive genetics as practiced in the clinics of America was an unknown black art. Or so yen Hjalmar believed; in fact, he was betting his life on it.

"Speak to me of this breeding program," said the old man on the mattress.

Ven Hjalmar stared at his beard. It straggled from the point of his chin, wispy but not too wispy, leaving his cheeks bare.

Is that spirit gum?

he wondered. The cheeks: There was something unnatural about their smoothness, as if powdered, perhaps to conceal the pattern of stubble. It would make sense perhaps, in an emergency, to be able to shed the formal robes, queue, and beard, to dissolve in the crowd. . . . "It was established by the Clan's security division a generation ago," he said slowly. "Normally the, the braid of marriages is managed by the elder womenfolk, matchmakers. But with a civil war only just dying down, the Clan's numbers were diminished drastically." It was surprisingly easy to slip into the habit of speaking of them as a third party, as

them

not

us.

Another creeping sign of exile.

"In America, to which they have access, medical science is very much more advanced than in the Gruinmarkt—or in New Britain. Childless couples can make discreet use of medical services to arrange for a child to be born, with one or other parent's

genes"—he

used the alien word deliberately, throwing it into conversation without explanation—"to the wife, or to a host mother for adoption. The duke came to an arrangement with such a clinic, to discreetly insure that a number of such babies were born with the ability to pass on the world-walking

gene

to their own offspring. Records were kept. The plan was to approach the female offspring, as adults, and offer to pay them to be host mothers—paid handsomely, to bear a child for adoption. A child who would, thanks to the clinic, be a true world-walker, and be fostered by the Clan."

The old lady to the right of the bearded elder tugged her robe fastidiously. Despite the cultivated air of impassivity, the stench of her disapproval nearly made the doctor cough. "They are unmarried, these host mothers?" she asked querulously.

Ven Hjalmar nodded. "They do things

very

differently in the United States," he added.

"Ah." She nodded; oddly, her disapproval seemed to have subsided.

Must be some local custom. . . .

He took note of it, nervously.

"As you can imagine, the Clan's, ah, matchmakers"—he'd nearly said

old women

but caught himself at the last moment—"did not know of this scheme. It undermined their authority, threatening their rank and privilege. Furthermore, if it went to completion it would hugely undermine the noble families, for these new world-walkers would be brought into the Clan by the duke's security apparatus, with no hereditary ties to bind them to the braids. The scheme found favor with the radical reformers who wished to integrate the Clan more tightly into America, but to those of us who had some loyalty to the old ways"—or

who preferred to be bigger fish in a smaller pond—"it

was most suspicious."

The old man—Elder Huan, James Lee had whispered in his ear as they approached the chamber—nodded. "Indeed." He fixed ven Hjalmar with a direct and unwavering gaze that was entirely at odds with the image he had maintained throughout the audience up to this point, and asked, "What do you want of us, Doctor?"

Ven Hjalmar did a double take. "Uh, well, as a doctor, the duke commanded my attendance. I obeyed, with reservations; however, I consider myself to be released from his service by the occasion of his death. The family loyalists and the radicals are currently tearing each other apart. I come to you in the hope that you might better exercise the wisdom needed to guide and integrate a generation of new world-walkers." He smiled tightly. "I do not have the list of host mothers on my person, and indeed it would be no use to you without a physician licensed to practice in the United States—which I happen to be. There will be expenses, and it will take some time to set up, but I believe my identity over there is still secure. And I have in any case taken steps—"

Elder Huan glanced sideways at the sour-faced old woman. "Aunt Mei?"

Aunt Mei sniffed. "Get to the

point,

boy. We don't have all day!" Elder Huan produced a pocket watch from one sleeve of his robe and glanced at it. "You are trying to sell us something. Name your price."

Sweat broke out on Robard's hands.

Not so Chinese,

he realized. Either that, or the directness was a snub, unconscionable rudeness to someone of professional rank. "I can give you world-walking babies," he finally admitted. "I will have to spend some time and considerable money in the United States, and it will take at least eighteen months to start—this can't be hurried, not just the pregnancies but the appearance of legitimate medical practice—but once the operation is up and running, I can deliver up to fifty new world-walkers in the first two years, more later."

Lots

more with harvested eggs and sperm and an IVF clinic; times had moved on since the first proposal to use AID and host mothers. "The money . . . I believe on the order of two million US dollars should cover start-up costs, and another hundred thousand per baby. That would be eight thousand pounds and eight hundred pounds. You'll need to build a small shipping operation along similar lines to the Clan's to raise the money—but you have the advantage of being utterly unknown to and unsuspected by the federal agencies. If you stay out of their exact line of business you should thrive."

Aunt Mei's eyes narrowed. "And

your

price?" she asked.

It was now or never. "I want somewhere to live," he admitted. "My patron is dead, the Clan is in turmoil, and I doubt their ability to survive what is coming. I know the Americans—I've worked among them for years—the Gruinmarkt will not be safe. If the loyalist faction wins, they will try to continue as before, a big mistake. If the progressives win . . . they'll want to live here." He smiled, as ingratiatingly as he could. "We are distant cousins. Can we put past misunderstandings behind us and work together? Consider me a test case."

"You ask of us accession to our family," declared Aunt Mei. "Money and status besides, but principally refuge from your enemies." She turned and nudged Elder Huan. "Is that

all?"

She sounded mildly scandalized.

Elder Huan stared at ven Hjalmar. "Is that all, indeed?" he echoed ironically. "You would betray your own family . . . ?"

"They

betrayed

me!"

Ven Hjalmar was beyond containment. "I was placed in an intolerable position! Obey the duke and earn the undying hatred of a woman who was to be married to the heir to the throne, or disobey the duke and—well!" He swallowed. "I gather there is a curse: May

you come to the attention of important people.

At first it looked like a simple problem to solve. The girl was an idiot, naive, and worse, was poking her nose into places it did not belong. But then the civil war started, the duke was incapacitated, and she . . . well. My household was destroyed in the war: My parents are dead, I have no brothers or sisters. What is a man at the end of his affairs to do?"

There it was, on the table. Spun as neatly as he could manage, admittedly, no hint that his own actions had been motivated by aught but the purest obedience to his elders and betters; but soon there would be no one alive to gainsay his account. (The duke was reliably dead, and as for the dowager Hildegarde, she had followed the most insane imaginable strategy of tension with the Americans, obviously lacking even the remotest idea of the magnitude of their inevitable response—she would follow him soon, and certainly long before she'd move to New Britain, of that he was certain.) Robard sweated some more, waiting for the elder Huan to give some indication of his thoughts. Then, after a moment, the elder inclined his head, and looked at Aunt Mei. "As you will."