Jenna Starborn - Softcover

You would think that if someone commissioned your conception, paid for your gestation, and claimed you immediately after your harvesting, she would love you with her whole heart; but you would be wrong. Aunt Rentley had had me created to fill a void in her existence, which was unexpectedly filled by others. I was quickly made not only redundant but unwelcome, and yet there I was, in her house, under her feet, a constant reminder of how much she had paid to purchase something she no longer wanted.

This was never clearer than on Jerret's ninth birthday, an event celebrated with as much flourish as my aunt could muster. The cooks spent a week baking special dishes for the delectation of the hundred guests. The housemaids cleaned every room in the fifty-room mansion down to the curtains, walls, and floorboards; the gardeners replanted the entire front lawn with a hybrid rose imported from Karian and doomed to die within a month in our unfavorable climate. The walls of the mansion were themselves recharged so they hummed with energy and delighted you with the faintest static shock if you ran your hand too rapidly over the simulated brick. Cold and sunless it might be outside, but inside existed an environment of warmth, light, cheer, and goodwill.

For those welcome in the house, of course.

During all this frenzied activity, I kept to myself as much as possible, for there was nowhere I was particularly wanted. As Aunt Rentley's ward, I was not exactly a servant, so there was no work for me to perform in the kitchen or laundry room; and yet neither Aunt Rentley nor Jerret wanted me to join in their family councils as they planned their guest list and considered activities for the celebration. I was used to being ignored by my aunt and her son, but during these planning stages, I was positively reviled. My briefest appearance caused her to shriek with impatience and order me from the room, stupid girl, did I not see how busy she was with important preparations? Jerret, a born bully, would leap to his feet and point a chubby finger toward the door, bawling at me to get out get out get out, he did not want me ruining his party with my sallow face and witch's eyes.

He stopped at verbal abuse if his mother or one of the servants could hear, but if I happened to cross his path when no one else was near, he would fall upon me in physical rage. I was a year older than he was, but he was by far bigger, and more than once he cornered me against some doorway or banister and threw punches into my stomach and raised bruises on my shins. This afternoon, he had wrestled me to the ground and twisted his hand in the collar of my shirt so that I could scarcely breathe. I truly thought I would lose consciousness or suffocate, but then I heard footsteps down the hall.

It was Betista, coming around the corner with her arms piled high with fresh linens. "Master Jerret!" she exclaimed, and suddenly I was free, supine on the cold floor, too faint to immediately raise my head. Through a strange dullness in my ears I heard Jerret scramble to his feet and make his sullen defense.

"It was her fault. She hit me," he growled.

Betista ignored him, dropping to her knees to investigate my condition. I heard the sounds of Jerret's footsteps fleeing down the hall.

"Jenna!" Betista exclaimed. "Jenna, dear girl, are you badly hurt? Do I need to send you to the PhysiChamber?"

I had recovered enough now to push myself to a sitting position. She was still staring down at me, clasping her hands under her full chin, her gray eyes sick with worry. I attempted a smile. "I'll be fine. I feel sick to my stomach, but that will pass."

"Let me take you to the kitchen," she said briskly, hauling her bulk to her feet and reaching out a hand to help me up. "I'll make you some tea."

But the thought of swallowing anything hurt my bruised throat. "No, thank you very much," I said formally. Ignoring her outstretched hand, I pushed myself to my feet. "I'll just go to my room now."

Betista looked undecided. She was the housekeeper, a woman of some influence in the household, and she was the closest to an ally I had ever had. Yet, as she would never overtly defy my aunt Rentley, and she could not protect me from Jerret, there was very little she could do to materially improve my lot. Except not hate me.

"I think you should come sit quietly by me for a while," she said. "I should keep an eye on you. You look pale and a little strange."

"I always look strange," I said, with an attempt at humor.

Betista bristled. "Now, that's not true! You're a lovely girl-a little thin, maybe, and dark, though some consider a dark complexion to be fashionable-you shouldn't listen to what your aunt says, you know she's partial to Master Jerret-"

I let it go; I was not about to discuss my physical merits with the housekeeper here in the hallway when all I wanted to do was go to my room and lie down. "In any case, I'll be fine," I said.

Betista gathered up her linens, which she had dropped helter-skelter on the floor when she came to my aid. I sensed a certain indecision in her manner. "Now, what happened this afternoon," she said slowly, uncertainly. "You're not going to tell on Master Jerret-"

"No," I said tiredly.

"Because she can't help it, he's her son and she loves him. When you tell tales on him, she doesn't believe you."

"I know."

"So it does no good to be reporting stories to your aunt," she finished up in a rush.

I had made my way somewhat shakily to the head of the stairwell; it was the servants' staircase, but it would take me by an indirect route to my own chamber. Over my shoulder, I said curtly, "She's not my aunt," and I began the long climb up to my room.

In point of fact, she was not my aunt; she had intended to be my mother. That was when she was childless, of course, before the doctors had made the miracle of Jerret possible. So she had commissioned me, and I had been grown in the generation tanks of Baldus, and she had come every day to watch my fetus shape itself and uncurl. She had laid her hand on the glass tanks, trying through the impermeable substance to touch my clenched fingers, and she had counted the minutes and the days until I was ready for harvesting.

When did it go wrong for her? When did I lose my hold on her heart? Was there something repulsive in my small, squalling body-was there a timbre in my midnight wail that sent tremors through her sensitive bones? I like to think neither of these things are true; I like to think that any child she had brought home from the gen tanks would have, eventually, seemed to her something foreign and hateful. She is not a happy woman around synthetics; she cannot stand the sight of the cyborgs that labor in the mines, indifferent to the planet's cold and its poisons alike. I like to think that it was the method of my creation, and not the soul inside my body, that made her despise me.

Or perhaps it had nothing to do with me or my conception: Perhaps she was so limited in her love that she had none to spare for me once she could produce her own son. It had been an accepted thing, since some early childhood trauma, that she would be unable to conceive; and among her contemporaries, to bear a child naturally was considered the highest accomplishment a woman could attain. But something happened only two months after she brought me home. The doctors perfected the artificial womb, and her fortune was easily large enough to purchase one, and suddenly she was carrying within her own body that most precious commodity, another life; and there was no room for me in her thoughts, in her house, in her heart.

Naturally, this left me in a most precarious position. Since she had paid for me, she was responsible for me; I was not easily disposed of. And yet, since she had never formally adopted me, I was not legally her daughter. In fact, I had no legal status at all. I simply was.

The technical term for my condition was half-citizen, and there were many like me, on Baldus and throughout the interstellar system. We were created from many circumstances. Some, like me, were rejected gen-tank babies. Some were legitimately conceived sons and daughters whose parents had decided, for some reason or another, not to acknowledge them. Some were orphans, with no family to care for them and no institution willing to pay for their upkeep and training in a profession that would allow them to earn enough to buy their own citizenship.

Citizenship existed at five grades, from the fifth and lowest rung to the first and highest. Fifth- and fourth-level citizens were accorded such status only on their home worlds; third- and second-class citizens were accepted in more regional districts of federated planets; and first-grade citizens were honored everywhere throughout the Allegiant Planetary Council Worlds.

Citizenship grades had been instituted in the first greedy, brutal days of interstellar exploration. The fractured governments of the planet Earth being unable to sustain any cohesive space-going program, the real advances in technology and colonization had been, at the beginning, financed by extraordinarily wealthy private entrepreneurs who were not willing to share their prizes with the masses back home. As one of the great early merchant princes put it, "Imperialism is incompatible with democracy." Those first families in space risked much, gained everything, and passed on to future generations wealth so fabulous it could hardly be reckoned-and the same disinclination to share their fortunes. As the Allegiance was formed between newly settled planets, social systems grew more codified, and the chance of breaking from a preordained caste grew more and more remote.

There were only three ways to become a citizen of any rank: Be born (or adopted) to the status, marry into it, or buy it. I had been unlucky on the first count. Even at the age of ten, I could see that the other options did not look promising for me, either. I knew I was contemplating a lifetime of half-citizenship.

But it would not be so bleak as all that. Half-cits were allowed to work, and keep their wages (though they generally were employed in menial jobs and taxed at exorbitant rates). They could marry. They could not vote and they could not own extensive property and they were strongly discouraged from reproducing (though these days you heard fewer stories of half-cit children being whisked away from their mothers' arms and disappearing into some unmentionable hell). But they could be productive members of a vast and far-flung society, and I had hopes of one day finding my entrie into that universe. I believed I could gain some useful skills, and find worthwhile employment and support myself in some not wholly distasteful enterprise; and it was this goal that gave me the strength to go on during my darkest days under Aunt Rentley's roof. I was not valued here, but someday, somewhere, in the smallest of positions, someone would value me, and on that slim hope I fed even when I could take in no other sustenance.

That night, dinner was torture. My awkward position in the household made it impossible for me to dine with the servants, so I always took my meals with Aunt Rentley and Jerret. Usually they ignored me, which was easy to do, as the table was long and narrow, and we sat as far from one another as we could. I always ate as quickly and as quietly as possible, though Aunt Rentley invariably remarked on my slurping or chewing sounds, and I excused myself from the table as soon as I was able.

This night, though I ate my soup as noiselessly as I could, my gestures or my appearance or my very presence irritated Aunt Rentley almost at once.

"Sweet Lord Yerni, girl, can't you manage to swallow your food with a little less commotion?" Aunt Rentley exclaimed. "I declare, my son and I can hardly hear each other speak for all the racket you're making."

"I'm sorry," I said, though I did not feel at all sorry; I felt maligned. "I can eat with Betista if you'd rather."

"Eat with Betista! Of course you could not! Eat with the servants, what will you be saying next . . ." Her voice trailed off. Down the length of the table I could feel her eyes examining me. "What in the world have you done to yourself? You've dirt all around your neck."

I took another spoonful of my soup, this time sucking it up with the noisiest inhalation I could manage. "It's not dirt," I said.

"Stop that! Eat like a lady," Aunt Rentley said sharply. "If it's not dirt, then what is it?"

I knew better-and Betista had warned me-but I could not help myself. I was angry, and my face hurt, and my muscles still ached with that remembered brutality. So I said, calmly as you please, "A bruise. Jerret choked me in the hall."

"I did not!" Jerret squealed just as Aunt Rentley uttered a sharp exclamation of disbelief.

"Wicked girl!" she cried. "To lie about your betters in such a way!"

I shrugged. "I'm not lying. He pushed me, and he choked me, and he wanted me to be hurt."

"Lying! She's lying!"

Aunt Rentley was on her feet, pointing a trembling finger at me. "You will go to your room, miss, and you will meditate on your sins, and you will not be allowed back at this table-no, nor shall you have any dinner or any breakfast or any food at all-until you apologize to Jerret."

I pushed my chair back and stood up. This was not the first time I had been banished from the table and told I would skip a meal or two, but this time it looked like starvation to me, for I would not apologize to Jerret if it meant my very death. "I feel sorry for you," I remarked. "To be so blind that you love someone so cruel."

She actually gasped. "Sorry for me! You-you-lying, terrible creature, it is yourself you should feel sorry for, for your evil ways will lead you to damnation and hellfire-"

"I'm not the one with evil ways," I said, still in the calm, certain voice that I knew roused her to fury, and yet I could not stop myself. She was wrong; I was right; and though I knew enough of the world to realize that that guaranteed me nothing, still I could not bear to back down from a stance I knew was proper. "Your son is the liar, and your son is the unkind one, and he is the one who would face damnation and hellfire, if there were such things awaiting us after death, which there are not-"

I had not thought she could grow angrier or more red-faced, but at this heresy she did both, stamping her foot this time in earnest. "Godless child!" she shrieked, for she worshiped most devotedly at the Church of the Five Saviors. "To insult me-and my son-and then to scoff at the Lords themselves-"

Jerret had lost interest in our argument a few strophes ago, for he was now spooning up food with great concentration, but at this he said, "Stupid PanEquist. Now you really will die and go to hell."

"Go! Before I call one of the servants in to throw you in your chamber!" Aunt Rentley panted. "To your room! And you will not come out, or speak to a soul, until I grant you permission! Now out! Out!"

I laid my fork on the table with great deliberation, stood quite slowly, and nodded my head most gravely in her direction. "I am glad to go," I said, and headed with dignit...