Jeremy’s case, someone bred to be a personal servant, just as Isaac’s “V” denoted one of the technical combat breeds. The “-86b” referred to one of the multitude of slight variants within the general archetype. In Jeremy’s case, the variant designed to provide clients with acrobatic entertainment—jugglers and the like. Court clowns, in essence. The number 273 referred to the “batch,” and the 1/5 meant that Jeremy was the first of the quintuplets in that batch to be extracted from the breeding chamber.
Cathy ran her hand down her face, as if wiping away filth. In truth, she knew, Manpower’s “scientific” terminology covered a genetic method which was almost as fraudulent as it was evil. It was the modern equivalent of the grotesque medical experiments which the ancient Nazis of fable were said to have practiced. Cathy was not a professional biologist, but in the course of her long struggle against genetic slavery she had come to be a lay expert on the subject. Genes were vastly more fluid things than most people understood. The specific way in which a genotype developed was as much a result of the environmental input at any given stage of development as it was on the inherent genetic “instructions.” Genes reacted differently depending on the external cue.
Manpower’s genetic engineers, of course, knew that perfectly well—despite the claims of their advertising that their “indentured servants” could be counted on to behave exactly as they were programmed. So they tried to provide the “proper environment” for the developing genotypes. On the rare occasions when a biologically-sophisticated prospective client pressed them on the subject, Manpower provided them with a learned and jargon-ridden explanation of what they called the “phenotype developmental process.”
Strip away the pseudoscientific claptrap and what it amounted to was:
And, within limits, it worked—usually. But not always, by any means. Certainly not in Jeremy’s case. Within less than a week after his sale, he had made his escape. Eventually, he arrived on Terra, through one of the routes maintained by the Anti-Slavery League. Within a day of his arrival, he had joined the Audubon Ballroom, probably the most radical and
But if anyone could get Captain Anton Zilwicki’s daughter back alive, it would be Jeremy X. Certainly if she were held captive in the Loop. And if, in the months and years which followed, a number of Manticore’s most prominent families found themselves attending an unusually large number of funerals, Cathy could not honestly say the prospect caused her any anguish. Rich people who trafficked in slavery for the sole purpose of indulging their personal vices would get little in the way of mercy from her.
And they would get none at all from a man whose birth name was still marked on his tongue.
As she ushered the captain and his companion to the door, Cathy remembered something.
“Oh, yes. Satisfy my curiosity, Anton. Earlier, you said there were three types of people in State Security. But you never got around to explaining the third sort. So who are they?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it? What happens to a young idealist, as the years go by and he discovers his beloved Revolution is covered with warts?”
Cathy frowned. “They adapt, I imagine. Get with the program. Either that or turn against it and defect.”
Anton shook his head. “Many do adapt, yes. The majority of them, probably. And when they do they are often the most vicious—just to prove to their superiors, if nothing else, that they can be counted on. But almost none ever defect and there are a lot of them who just fade into the woodwork, trying to find a corner where they can still live. Don’t forget that, from their point of view, the alternative isn’t all that attractive.”
His lips twitched. “Even a Gryphon traditionalist like me isn’t all that fond of some aspects of Manticoran society. Try to imagine, Cathy, how a man from the Legislaturalist regime’s Dolist ranks is going to feel, at the prospect that he’d have to bow and scrape before the likes of Pavel Young, Earl of North Hollow.”
Cathy was startled. “Surely they don’t know—”
“Of course they do!” Anton’s mouth started to twitch again, but the twitch turned into a genuine smile. “The Peeps tend to be a little schizophrenic on the subject of Honor Harrington, you know. On the one hand, she’s their arch-nemesis. On the other, she’s often been their favorite example of the injustices of Manticoran elitist rule.
“Not any more, of course,” he chuckled. “From the news coverage, I’d say the Salamander’s days in exile and disgrace are
Cathy brayed her agreement. “If that many!”
“But don’t think the Peep propagandists didn’t make hay while the sun was shining, Cathy. At least until Cordelia Ransom decided that there was more propaganda value in having Harrington ‘executed.’ ” Anton scowled. “That whole stinking Pavel Young affair was plastered all over every media outlet in the Havenite empire, for weeks on end. Hell, they didn’t even have to make anything up! The truth was stinking bad enough. A vile and cowardly aristocrat used his wealth and position to ruin an excellent officer’s career. Even paying for the murder of her lover—and getting away with it until Harrington finally cornered him into a personal duel. And
The highlander’s soul was back in charge, never mind the uniform. “A pox on all aristocracy,” he hissed. “Inbred filth and corruption.”
Belatedly, he remembered. “Uh, sorry. Nothing personal. Uh, Lady Catherine.”
“S’okay, Anton. I forget I’m a countess myself, as often as not.” She rubbed her sunburned nose.
“I—I’m really sorry we met this way, Cathy. I would have liked—I don’t know—”
Cathy placed her hand on his arm and gave it a little squeeze. She was a bit startled by the thick muscle under the uniform. “Don’t say anything, Anton. Let’s get your daughter back, shall we? The rest can take care of itself.”
He flashed her a thankful smile. They were now at the door, which Isaac was holding open in his best butler’s manner. Robert Tye had already stepped through and was waiting for Anton in the corridor beyond.
Anton and Cathy stared at each other for a moment. Now that they were standing side by side, she realized how much taller she was than the stocky captain. But, also, that the width of his shoulders was not an illusion created by his short stature. He really
Anton gave her a quick little bow, and hastened through the door. Then, stopped abruptly.
“Good Lord—I forgot to ask. How long will it take you—” He broke off, glancing quickly into the corridor.
Cathy understood. “I should be in contact with the individual quite shortly, I think. I’ll get in touch with you, Captain Zilwicki.”
“Thank you.” He was gone.
Helen
By the time Helen finished widening the tunnel enough to squeeze herself through, two-thirds of the dust in her makeshift hourglass had fallen through the hole. She had to wage a fierce battle to keep herself from leaving immediately.
That natural impulse was almost overwhelming. But it would be stupid. It wasn’t enough to simply get out of the cell. She also had to make her
Again, Helen’s success had caught her off guard. She had never really thought about what she would do
