"The cleverest part of the disease is in its pattern of morphing, which follows five stages. In stage one, which is the stage at which it is released from deepfreeze, the disease is asymptomatic and is spread mostly by air and, more rarely, bodily fluids or insect vector. This stage lasts thirteen days, after which it mutates into something which closely mimics the symptoms of the common cold. The coughing and sneezing act as an aid to transmission and, because colds are, in fact, common, can be expected to create no great interest. This stage, stage two, lasts twenty days. It then mutates into something harmless again, and lies dormant for a period of five days. In stage four, the disease turns deadly, killing virtually all who are infected within seven days, and more usually within four. This stage lasts nine days. In stage five the disease once again turns harmless and becomes incapable of reproduction.
"Moreover, every offspring of the virus begins life at the same stage of morphing as the original parent. This is achieved by the genengineering of excess segments on the virus' DNA, which decay or slough off at the times given, leaving a DNA strand with the pathogenic characteristics listed. Subsequent generations breed true to the stage the parent was at, at conception.
"Computer simulations show that nearly one hundred percent of a given population will encounter VA5H and be infected by it sometime in the forty-seven days prior to it mutating into stage five. Of the three percent who survive exposure, approximately one third can be expected to go blind, while another third will become sterile. Casualties among the very young and very old will closely approach one hundred percent. It is a civilization destroying disease.
"There is no known cure and no known vaccine. Natural immunity can be expected to be quite limited. Creation of a vaccine would be highly problematic without a sample of the original. In effect, VA5H would operate against a target population as a virgin field epidemic.
"As the virus will be very large, physical defense in the form of air filtration and isolation is possible but dependent upon warning. The major transmission stage, the long stage two, should aid in defeating any such attempts.
"The symptoms of the disease in its fourth stage are similar to Hemorrhagic Smallpox rather than to its less deadly cousins, Malignant Smallpox and Variola Major and Minor. In essence, VA5H causes the victim to fall apart, beginning with the mucous—"
"Stop!" Hamilton shouted, causing the machine to go suddenly silent. "It doesn't make me feel any better about committing one obscenity by hearing about another."
Caruthers set his face into a mask of anger. "Look at me, John," he said. "Look at me!" Caruthers held out one hand and pinched a fold of skin with the fingers of the other. "See that? What's that color? John, I'm black! How do you think I feel about it? Do you think those lily white bastards below the Sahara are selling off any of their precious white volk? Hmmm? Do you think I'm not going to see the faces of the people you sell to my last day? There is no good choice, none that works well enough. Not for something this serious."
"God," Hamilton sighed, "how did the world ever get to be like this?"
"I think they used to call it 'progress.'"
"Yeah . . . I guess the decay of a corpse is progress, too . . . from the point of view of the bacteria."
Castle Noisvastei, Province of Baya, 24 Sha'ban, 1536 AH (20 June, 2112)
Graduation holiday was over. From a high window overlooking the courtyard Petra watched her brother's company of janissaries forming in the courtyard next to the great, golden-domed mosque. She wondered if she'd ever see him again. She doubted it. Even so, she thanked a God she was not at all sure even existed (and, to be fair, Petra had reasons for doubt, if anyone did) that she'd had at least this one last chance to be together.
Ling wasn't taking it particularly well. She'd grown genuinely fond of Hans in the few days together. Petra thought that "fond" might be something of an understatement, yet that was all Ling would admit to.
Her eyes say something else though, Petra thought. Who would ever have thought it; little Ling-ling in love? And Brüder Hans as much so?
Petra asked directly, "Are you in love with my brother? You told me, when I first came here, never to get attached to the clients."
Ling sighed. "I don't know what love is. I know this, though: Of the thousands of men who've had me only one ever treated me like a princess, rather than a piece of meat."
She didn't say, but thought, And I might not be a real girl . . . but I have a real girl's feelings. The breeders couldn't breed that out of me. And when I look down there and see your brother marching away, I feel like a part of me is leaving, too.
Ling stood up and left. On the outside she seemed calm enough. What she was feeling inside Petra could only guess at.
Petra watched as the boys turned right and began filing away down the mountain path. She saw Hans turn around several times and look up at the windows. Whether he was seeking her or Ling, Petra didn't know. It was probably both, she decided.
When the last of the boys had disappeared, Petra turned away from her perch and began searching the castle for Ling.
She found Ling sitting alone on a wooden bench in what some of the staff called, "The Singer's Hall." The janissaries had banqueted there, each night of their stay.
Ling didn't notice her at first, or didn't seem to. That the Chinese slave was fully aware of Petra's presence became obvious once Petra was within a dozen feet.
Though Ling didn't turn her eyes from the painted wall upon which she had been gazing, she said, "There's a picture under there, you know."
Petra didn't know. As far as she could see the wall was blank.
"I can't see anything but white. What do you see?" Truthfully, Petra thought Ling was simply seeing things that weren't there. This would have been troublesome if their lives weren't already so miserably blighted.
"It's a man on a horse, an armed and armored man. He's dressed in silvered armor. His horse is roan and draped in red. Over the armor the man is wearing red as well. There's a castle in the background. Not this one, some other. The red clothed, armored man is fighting someone in brown."
"I can't see anything," Petra repeated.
Ling said nothing. A little voice in her head, however, said to her, Shut up about it. Now.
"Hans promised me he'd write to us," Petra offered.
"They often say that," Ling answered. "And sometimes, for a little while, they do. It never lasts. After all, we're just houris, polluted and polluting. Not real people, just slaves. Not someone real people care about."
"Hans is a slave, too."
Ling sighed. "I know. That's why I'll allow myself a little hope that he really cares."
"Both of us do."
Ling's brown, almond eyes looked up into Petra's rounder, blue ones. "Did I ever mention how much you two look alike?"