After the two Ahmeds came the two Bellas, also both present. And how typical of MotaiSyndicate to send two B series constructs. Had that really been a purely technical decision—the need to put together a work-pair with the right mix of skills for the mission—or was it a subtle transhuman dig at the older Syndicates’ resistance to caste-based series design?
Other than the fact that they were B’s, the most remarkable thing about the two Bellas was their eerily perfect resemblance to each other. Normal constructs differed from their sibs almost as much as natural twins did. They might look identical to human eyes, but they could always tell each other apart by little variations in features, height, coloring—even cowlicks, as Arkady had reason to know. But the MotaiSyndicate B’s weren’t twins; they were living, breathing mirrors. And the massive in vitro and postpartum culling that MotaiSyndicate used to achieve such perfection was almost as controversial among the older Syndicates as their caste-based genelines.
It was all ideologically impeccable, of course: a ruthlessly elegant expression of the highest and purest principles of sociobiology. But it still made Arkady’s stomach curl. What would it do to a person to know that his place in life had been preordained while he was still under the splicing scope in a hierarchy as inflexible as the most rigid human class system? What would it mean to have not one or two repressed memories of culled playmates, but dozens? And what would it mean to know that at every cull you were more likely than not to fail the cut yourself?
He saw no answer in the two Bellas’ faces—only a pale and polished beauty that didn’t even make the usual ritual nod to humanity. His first sight of those violet eyes, rimmed round with the delicate filigree of the MotaiSyndicate logo, was enough to make Arkady decide that transhumanism, for all its much-vaunted political purity, was an evolutionary step toward a future he didn’t want to live in.
The Aurelias, on the other hand, were balm to Arkady’s homesick soul. They were Rostovs, like Arkady and his pairmate. Lean and tall, with long-fingered surgeon’s hands, and long noses, and long narrow faces that would have been forbiddingly severe if not for their humorous, sensible, intelligent expressions. They loafed elegantly at the far end of the table like a matched set of wolfhounds, leaning against each other with a casualness that made Arkady suspect they were already old friends or lovers. One look at Aurelia the surgeon was enough to tell Arkady that she must have spent her schooldays sitting in the front row, hand permanently raised, eager to prove she knew the answer to everything. One look at her sib left him equally sure that she’d spent her time in the back row passing notes and throwing spitballs and looking forward to soccer practice. The geologist was particularly recognizable at the moment because she had a little more of a tan than her cogenetic. But even when the tan faded it would be easy enough to tell those two strong personalities apart.
They were from RostovSyndicate’s A-12 series, and as the numbering suggested they had a high rate of genetic overlap with Arkady’s own A-11 line. A higher rate than was normal, in fact; it was quite unusual for newly spliced genelines to be cleared for large-scale production two years running, and it had happened under the auspices of a now-legendary design team. Looking down the table at them, Arkady felt a swell of possessive pride at the phenomenal quality of his fellow Rostovs’ work—a pride that was enhanced, rather than reduced, by the fact that he would never know their names or be able in any way to distinguish them from their thousands of cogenetics.
The final workpair was represented by only one of its members—the other one presumably being on bridge duty at the moment. Both the Banerjees on the Novalis mission were astrophysicists with a secondary specialization in engineering that allowed them to cover for the Aziz pilots during the in-flight portions of the mission. Ranjipur…and Shrinivas, wasn’t it? Arkady found it very difficult to remember individual names. He couldn’t begin to imagine how humans managed the trick. But Banerjee was one of the original pre-Breakaway Syndicates, and it took pride in not using the post-Breakaway naming conventions. It also took pride, like RostovSyndicate, in resisting the newer Syndicates’ move toward caste-based genelines. So all the Banerjees, no matter what bizarre letters their names might start with, were A’s.
“All right,” said Laid-back Ahmed when the introductions had wound down and Arkady had begun to make some inroads into his curry. “On to important things. Like who’s going to make breakfast tomorrow?”
“I actually like cooking?” one of the Bellas said in a voice so hesitant it sounded like a question.
Arkady had already given up on telling the Bellas apart. Now he realized that the one speaking was standing holding a dish towel in her hands and apparently getting ready to do everyone’s dishes. The Motai Bs couldn’t be thinking that the others expected them to clean up after them, could they? That wasn’t just series specialization. It was rank humanism !
“On the other hand,” Bella went on, “Arkasha does seem to have started off very well…”
“Arkasha?” Laid-back Ahmed was grinning incredulously at her. “The rest of us haven’t even exchanged a full sentence with him and you’re already on a nickname basis?”
“He’s nice…”
“You think everyone’s nice,” her sib said, making a sour face. Suddenly Arkady realized that it wasn’t going to be at all hard to tell the two Bellas apart.
“Well, he is nice.” Shy Bella—as Arkady was already privately calling her—twisted the dishrag between her pale hands and appealed to Arkady for support. “Isn’t he?”
“Uh…I’ve never met him, actually.”
Six pairs of amazed eyes turned to stare at Arkady.
“Shit,” Laid-back Ahmed said. “On a three-year mission? That takes balls.”
“Well, we were supposed to meet first. But his last assignment ran over. And then there was something about a delayed surface-to-station flight. And then…well…”
“Sounds like the beginning of a bad romance novel,” scoffed Aurelia the surgeon.
“Don’t listen to her!” her sib cried. “There is no such thing as a bad romance novel. Besides, he’s cute, Arkady. A little skinny but really, really cute.” She winked conspiratorially. “Not that I’d know what boys think is cute, of course.”
“Oh, leave him alone, you two, he’s turning red as a beet!” Laid-back Ahmed gave Arkady a reassuring clap on the shoulder. It felt like being hit by a cargo hauler. “They’re just being silly women, Arkady. Arkasha’s a hard worker and a good pre-citizen in every way that counts. It’ll be fine. I’m sure it will.”
“You’re sure what will be fine?” said a voice Arkady knew like his own skin.
Arkasha—though it would be weeks before Arkady actually began to call him that—had paused in the doorway to take stock of the room before entering, just as Arkady himself had. But where Arkady had hovered hesitantly on the threshold, smiling and looking for answering smiles, his sib lounged against the door frame eyeing his crewmates with the cool detachment of a designer evaluating preculls for conformity to geneline norms.
“Uh, nothing,” Ahmed covered. “The curry’s fantastic, by the way. We were just talking about whether you might be willing to share cooking duty with Bella here.”
“I might. The sweater looks good on you, Arkady.”
Syndicate children learned very early not to say the words my or mine in polite company. Our was socially acceptable, as long as it was never applied to any group smaller than the whole geneline. But the singular possessive was beyond the pale. Still, there was a way of saying the that meant my. And that was the way Arkasha had just said it.