Lise, DM Arnold [bearly read books .TXT] 📗

and I got into a wrestling match, you'd splat me flat. Such strength isn't needed for picking pomma.”

“Then, why?”

“Because our people anticipated returning to space, some day. This colony was founded and later abandoned, leaving a die-hard group that called the place home and preferred to stay than return to the homeworld. Varada lacks the exotic minerals necessary for building warp coils and inertial sinks, at least based on homeworld technology. As a result, our technology regressed, but now it's progressing again.

“When we do return to space, there will be difficult and dangerous missions ahead. Missions for which additional strength and fortitude is essential.”

“So we were intended for off-world missions?”

“Among other things. Lise -- it's obvious you have never been pregnant. Did you know that, if we were to put an infant to your breast, within a couple days you'd begin lactating?”

“Yes, I knew that.”

“And, you know novonid milk is satisfactory for human infants.”

“Some believe it's superior.”

Thom nodded. “Again, no accident. It's all documented here. Have you been called upon to nurse an infant?”

“No. My mother has.”

“Then, there's the issue of your brain. Did you know that novonids come with one of two brain models? They're known as high-capacity and low-capacity. You possess a high- capacity one, no doubt. Again, it's all documented. Your designers discovered they could make you either stupid or intelligent. Intelligent meaning matching a white's intelligence -- though in your case, I'd say you're smarter than most.”

“You've said so.”

“Low capacity is fine for pomma farming. Up to a hundred years or so ago, that's what was bred. Hence, our society's conviction you are stupid, docile creatures. However, when you started moving off the farms and into the cities, your oppressors...” He paused and smiled. “That's me and my kind... We discovered the low-capacity brain doesn't have what it takes for urban assignments. Within a generation high-capacity models were being bred and became the dominant strain.

“You see, Lise -- we could make stupid ones or smart ones, but not half-smart ones. For a while we experimented with various forms of conditioning. Thankfully, that practice is dying out.” Thom pointed to a binder. “This one discusses your sexuality. I know the topic makes you uncomfortable, so we won't go into it ... except to note there's a reason why your reproductive strategy so exactly matches the human one. And the reason is not that the human model is so superior. It's not a very good system in my opinion.”

“Thom... All this has my head swimming.”

“Good. I want to uncover your eyes, Lise. I want you to see how you fit into the larger scheme. I want to radicalize you -- make you angry, and make you want something better.”

“What I have now is better than what I had,” she replied. “Isn't that good enough?”

“No -- not by a long shot. Let me show you something else Novonid Rescue is doing.” He brought up another photoimage. “This is a trade school we're starting. We'll be teaching novonids all the basic building trades.”

“Thom -- it won't work. My stepfather works as an unskilled construction laborer. He does so only because no white man wants to do that kind of work. He lifts things. He carries things. He digs holes and fills them in again. And, he can't touch any of the trades. If he touches a piece of iron or some polycrete, or even unplugs a cord, one trade or another files a grievance against him. You'll never penetrate the construction business. Not while the trade guilds hold sway.”

“That's not quite true,” Thom replied. “A generation or so ago, no one would've thought someone like your stepdad would set foot on a site ... not even as an unskilled laborer. Do you know if there are any white unskilled laborers on his jobsite?”

“One... An old man ready to retire.”

“Now, it's almost exclusively a novonid trade. Once we've created a workforce of novonids trained in the skilled trades, some contractor will hire them. He'll discover they do quality work, and other contractors will follow his lead.”

“See?” Lise asked. “We're evolving. Our situation is better than a hundred years ago.”

“Revolution, not evolution,” Thom retorted. “Evolution isn't fast enough. We need to grab society by its lapels and shake it. That's what I'm trying to do with Novonid Rescue.”

“I admire you, Thom. I admire someone who takes action.”

“That pleases me... All this material is yours, Lise.” He made a sweeping gesture toward the bookcase. “Come here in your spare time... Lock yourself in this room and educate yourself.” He checked his timepiece. “It's getting late. I should take you home.”

She followed him out of the house and to the car.

Lise stepped through the courtyard door and called down the stairs. “Mother!”

“Lise!” she called back.

“Shall I bar the door?”

“No -- Grott's not back yet.”

Lise descended the steps and into the glow of a greaselamp. Another meeting?”

“Yes. He feels he must attend and be the voice of reason.” Sirens began wailing across Vyonna. “Curfew.”

“Glinda's been sold -- to Ramina,” Lise said.

“What?”

“Ramina bought Glinda and Rinn. I doubt they've heard yet.”

“How did you hear?”

“I watched it happen. I watched an auction session. Glinda will be going to Ramina's breedery.”

“I'll miss her,” Rayla mused.

Lise heard the sound of the courtyard door. “Rayla! Lise!” Grott called.

“We're both here, Father,” Lise called in reply. She heard the bar drop into its brackets.

Grott came down the steps. “They've fixed the time for the strike,” he said. “In ten days.”

“Oh, Father!”

“It's idiocy. The pomma farms will go out, so they say. After ten days the pomma crop will be ruined and the whites won't permit that. It won't play like they think it will.”

“How will it play?” Lise asked.

“The farms won't stay out long enough. Two, three days at most ... then, when the farms start to cave the comfortable urban greens will start heading back to work. That'll leave only the Zone on strike. No one cares about the Zone.”

“Did you tell them that's how it'll play?” Rayla asked.

“Of course I did. They don't know what it's like on the farms. None of them have ever set foot on one. There's no way the farm workers will stay out more than three days.”

“It's because,” Lise added, “of the low-capacity brains of farm workers.”

“What?” Rayla asked.

“It's true -- novonids are bred with two different brain models. There's a low- capacity brain for farm work and a high-capacity one for city work. I learned about it tonight.”

Grott narrowed his eyes. “Are you saying farm workers are stupid?”

“Not all... But there are two different novonid brains.”

Rayla suppressed laughter. “It does explain some of what I've seen over the years,” she said.

“Those with low-capacity brains are more docile, more apt to do what they're told and less likely to appreciate a coordinated effort. That's why it'll be hard to organize the farms.”

“They've solved the organization problem,” Grott replied. “It's keeping them out that's the challenge. It has nothing to do with brain size. It has to do with the farmers having hundreds of years experience imposing their wills.”

“Is Mott's bunch leading it?” Rayla asked.

“Yes...”

“Was Mott at the meeting?” Lise asked.

“No -- just his lieutenants.” Grott held up his hand. “They asked me to keep one of their strike chains. I told them I'd keep it. I have to be up at dawn and I'm tired from arguing with those nitwits. I'm going to bed.”

Lise undressed and stretched out on her mattress. She heard sounds of Zone residents talking on the street outside her building.

A noise tugged at her, pulling her from her slumber. Someone was pounding on the courtyard door. “Lise!” a voice called from outside. “LISE! GROTT! RAYLA!”

She headed toward the steps, grabbing a towel on her way and holding in front of herself. “Who's there?”

“It's me, Lise!”

“Tagg!” She lifted the bar and opened the door. He pushed past her into the basement. “Tagg -- what are you doing here this time of night?”

“What's the commotion?” Rayla asked as she stepped from the sleeping quarters she shared with Grott. She lit a match and ignited a greaselamp.

“I'm not going back,” Tagg said. “I'm not going back.”

“What happened?” Lise asked him.

“Look!” He faced away from the lamp. Tagg's back was covered with a random pattern of welts. Some were caked with dried blood.

“Tagg!” Lise cried. “It's criminal!”

“Lise is right,” Rayla added.

“Who did that to you?”

“I was bussing tables. I had a tray stacked with dishes. One of the tables had a group of workers. They were having some sort of party and they all smelled of pomma beer. One of them put his foot out while I was passing and tripped me. They thought it was great fun. The dishes went flying and everything broke.

“Then, the foreman decided to make an example of me. He's never liked me, not from the start. He marched me into the barracks and started caning me. He had me bend over a desk and he caned me -- one stroke for each broken dish. Then he told me to get back to work.”

“Is the foreman white or green?” Lise heard Grott ask from the shadows.

“He's another novonid.”

“Do you have his number? I'll have a word with him.”

“I don't... I think he lives at the restaurant. Well, I didn't go back to my post. How could I go in front of customers with my back bleeding? Instead, I headed for here.”

“The restaurant's in Quadrant Two,” Lise said.

“The busses were still running, so I made it to downtown before the warning chimes. I figured if I kept to the shadows I could make it back to the Zone. I think one of the pylon cams caught me, but I made it here.”

Rayla brought a can with some water. “Let me clean your back.”

“OWW! I've had it. I am not going back there. I don't care if they list me as a renegade or put a bounty on me. I'm not leaving the Zone.”

Lise sat and held his head in her lap. “No, Tagg. I've lived underground and it's no fun. You need to speak to your owner about this. An owner won't put up with someone mistreating his workers. A good one won't.”

“No. I'm not going back.”

“Lise is right,” Rayla added. “You must clear this up. Your owner can file criminal charges for what he did.”

“What about your art?” Lise asked. “If you spend your life hiding in the Zone, how can you sell your art?”

“I don't care. I'm not going back.”

XII

Lise knelt in Megan's living room picking up polymer construction blocks. The door opened. “Lise?”

Lise stood. “Oh, hello Megan. The twins are napping. We were at the park for a while.”

“That's fine, Lise. Something wrong?”

“What makes you think that?”

“You seem down today.”

“I'm worried about my boyfriend. He lost his job and now he's in some trouble. That didn't sound right...” She pondered. “He didn't do anything wrong but he's bearing the brunt of it.”

“I know that scenario well,” she replied. “Good luck.”

“Thanks. We're going to need some.”

The mediascreen warbled with an incoming call. “I'll get that,” Megan said and headed for the device.

“I'll be on my way. See you tomorrow, Megan.”

Lise headed for the door. She was halfway down the block when she heard her name. Megan was half-walking and half-running after her. “Lise!” she called.

“What?” Lise turned. “What is it?”

Megan attempted to catch her breath. “I'm out of shape... Lise, that was your owner.”

“Ms Ramina?”

“Yes -- she wants you to stop by her place on your way home.”

Lise rolled her eyes. “Am I in trouble now, too?”

“Not from me you're not.” Megan opened her arms and embraced her. “You're wonderful, Lise -- you're wonderful with the children and a good friend and I never miss an opportunity to tell Ramina so.”

Lise smiled. “You made my day.”

Ramina's breedery was in Quadrant Two -- the opposite direction from the Zone. Getting there wasn't nearly the problem going home would be. Lise crossed the street and waited for an inbound bus routed through Quadrant Two.

The bus stopped three blocks from the