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“Message from Tamara Gould, from Manhattan. Subject: party.” The last thing Jackson wanted tonight was another party. Would Cazie want to go? If he took her, would Cazie stay with him a little longer?

“Message from Brandon Hileker, from Yale. Subject: class reunion.” Oh, God, had it been ten years since his B.A.? A reunion. And what do you do, Jackson? A doctor? Isn’t that a little… superfluous?

“Message from Lizzie Francy. Subject: baby project.” Baby? Project? What did that mean? Had something happened to the baby Jackson had delivered last week? Why call it a “project”? But, then, what did Jackson really know about what Livers called anything?

“Caroline, give me that message, please.”

Lizzie’s face formed on the wall screen. Unlike the last time he had seen them, Lizzie’s expression was alert and her hair neatly combed. Her black eyes sparkled. Her speech, he noted, sounded donkey, not Liver. Victoria Turner’s doing?

“This is Lizzie Francy for Dr. Jackson Aranow. Dr. Aranow, I’m calling because I need your help. It’s a project connected to the babies’ health—not just my baby that you delivered, but all babies in the tribe. And maybe other tribes.” She hesitated, and her voice changed. “Please call back. It’s really really important.” Another hesitation, then a curiously stiff little bow of the head. “Thank you.”

“End of message,” Caroline said. “Do you wish to reply?”

“No. Yes.” If the baby had had some kind of accident… “project”? “Record message.”

“Recording.”

“Dr. Jackson Aranow for Lizzie Francy. Please give me more details about your problem. Is the baby in need of medical attention? If so, then—”

To his surprise, Lizzie’s face in real-time interrupted his recording. It was 4:30 in the morning. What was she doing, overriding his personal system? And how was she doing it?

“Dr. Aranow, thank you for calling back! I—we—desperately need your help. Could you—”

“Is the baby all right?”

“The baby’s fine. See?” She enlarged the screen scope; he saw that she was nursing her infant son.

“Then why did you say this ‘project’ was for the baby’s health?”

“It is. But long-term. I didn’t know who else to ask. It’s a really important project!”

Jackson had the feeling he should hang up. Livers. It was always a mistake to get involved with them. Provide the basic necessities out of human charity, yes. Donkeys had tried to do that: it wasn’t the donkeys’ fault if Livers had rejected the social contract—goods for votes—that had provided for their needs. Beyond that, Livers were difficult. Uneducated, demanding, ungrateful, dangerous. And the sight of Lizzie’s full breast in her child’s mouth made him oddly uncomfortable. He thought of Cazie, asleep in his bed.

Lizzie said, “Did you ever hear of a woman named Ellie Sandra Lester?”

Jackson drew in a breath. “Yes,” he said. “Go on.”

Interlude

TRANSMISSION DATE: November 28, 2120

TO: Selene Base, Moon

VIA: Boston Ground Station, GEO Satellite 1453-L (U.S.), Luna City Ground Station

MESSAGE TYPE: Encrypted

MESSAGE CLASS: Class B, Private Paid Transmission

ORIGINATING GROUP: GeneModern, Inc., Boston, Massachusetts

MESSAGE:

Ms. Sharifi:

As we said in our previous two transmissions, GeneModern is interested in pursuing a commercial partnership with Selene Base in developing viable extensions of your patented product, the Cell Cleaner™. We believe that our research facilities, among the best in the world, have succeeded in duplicating some of the nonpatented aspects of your groundbreaking work in cellular biology (see attached documents). The rest remains not only proprietary but—let us be frank—beyond our current capabilities. What we can bring to a partnership with Selene is unparalleled manufacturing abilities, superb international distribution, and high-quality investment interest. The former two attributes may be more necessary to you than formerly, since your relocation at Selene. The latter would relieve you of the financial exposure your first venture must have entailed. In addition, our data security system, designed by Kevin Baker, ranks among the most excellent anywhere (see attached documents).

We believe that the ROI opportunities in a GeneModern/Selene partnership are without precedent. Therefore, GeneModern invites your earliest reply.

Yours very truly,

Gordon Keller Browne, CEO

GeneModern, Inc.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT: None received

Seven

Why didn’t you ask me?” Vicki said. “I could have helped you with this just as well as Jackson Aranow!

“He’s a donkey,” Lizzie said. She hated it when Vicki was mad at her. Vicki was supposed to be Lizzie’s champion. That was her program.

“Lizzie, I’m a donkey,” Vicki said.

“But you don’t live, you, with donkeys. You don’t know anybody anymore. Dr. Aranow knows other donkeys, him.” Lizzie heard her speech sliding back, into Liver, which happened only when she was excited or upset. She rolled over onto her back and crossed her arms on her chest.

The two women lay under the feeding dome, having a late breakfast. They were alone except for Dirk, sleeping beside them on the warm, dry ground. Four feet above their heads the weak November sun was so magnified by the special plastic of the tent that the new Y-energy cones Dr. Aranow had sent from TenTech hadn’t even been turned on. Sunlight soaked into Lizzie’s skin; it seemed to her she could feel her body absorbing nutrients from the ground, energy from the air. She resented Vicki for interfering with this usually lovely feeling.

Lizzie said, “I thought Dr. Aranow might know about Harold Winthrop Wayland and Ellie Lester. And he did know.”

Vicki pushed her hair off her face and frowned. “Okay—what did Jackson say about Wayland? What information that I couldn’t have discovered for you just as competently?”

“That District Supervisor Wayland was dead, and so—”

“We already knew that!”

“—and the person who was supposed to notify the state government was his great-granddaughter. Ellie Lester.”

“Great-granddaughter? How old was the district supervisor?”

“I don’t know. But she’s his next-of-kin, and she should have notified the state so that they could arrange a special election to fill his position. And she didn’t.”

“Well, of course she didn’t,” Vicki said. “Why bother, when nobody votes anymore because the Livers are all moving around like nomads? Nomads don’t have voting addresses. Or district warehouses. No votes, no warehouses, no need for a district supervisor. It was always an entry political office, anyway. It conferred no power among donkeys themselves.”

Lizzie said stubbornly, “She was still supposed to tell the state capital they needed a special election.”

Vicki smiled. “I’m perpetually astonished by the rules you think should be honored and the ones you’re willing to break. No hobgoblins in your inconsistent mind.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Although… it is strange that the system wasn’t programmed to automatically advise the government of official deaths among elected officials. Then again, maybe it did advise Harrisburg. What else did Jackson Aranow say about Ellie Lester?”