That evening, months ago, Io's friend had only just begun her latest surropreg and still yearned passionately for the chemical pleasures now denied her by guild rules. Of course, soon Perseph would be substituting a mellow high from her own hormonal flow. Meanwhile, though, she made pretty miserable company.
"Nawi, Io. I don't think I could hold out long enough to do eggwork. It takes so long, I'd go crazy for a party."
"But Pers, look what Technique Zaire's paying for a prime cockatrice these days. Or a shipbrain—"
"A shipbrain! Hah! How'd a piece like me ever get seeded with a shipbrain? If I ever signed up for eggwork, they'd knock me up with . . . with a traffic cop!" Perseph laughed, a sound Io felt had grown more bitter of late.
Io shook her head. "All I know's I don't want to have to scrimp for another ten years. Two more successful carries and I'll have paid for tuition and a license, and have enough left over for nestworks. Anyway, eggcraft leaves me needing less retroconversion."
"Hmm," her friend had said dubiously. "Meanwhile you live like a tweenie, saving your bonuses, cashing all your hobby 'lotments. I swear, Io, some of us think you—" Perseph bit her lip. "Well, you just don't party enough."
"I got no time for move-parties, Pers. You know that. First there's school . . ."
"Argh." Perseph had twisted away in disgust. "Io, you make me tired just thinkin' about it."
That conversation had distilled their difference, and from that day forth they avoided the subject.
But now Io recalled the occasion with eidetic detail as she walked alongside a slowly crawling recovery couch, brushing her friend's sweat-damp hair while postpartum enzymes dripped into Perseph's veins, gradually displacing her cheeks' chalky pallor with a healthy color one could hardly tell from natural. Over one armrest a glowing monitor measured Perseph's recovery from the strains of labor, pacing the slow forward progress of her couch to the strengthening of her vital signs. Pieceworkers in the sperm trade hardly ever got visitors on delivery day. What would be the point? So these moving couches weren't equipped with sidecars, only tiny spring-mounted jump stools. Io preferred to walk, eyes ever alert for the maintenance carts and cleaner beasts scurrying about on preassigned courses. She had dropped by to surprise her friend, but was starting to wish she hadn't. These wholesale decanting centers gave her nausea.
She brushed Perseph's black ringlets while rows of other recovery couches periodically emerged from unloading bays like vans off an assembly line, each conveying a tired, limp, freshly emptied pieceworker. As the doors opened, cries spilled into the vast recovery hall—from the panicky ululations of an ill-trained first-timer to the rhythmic karate-shouts of a skilled veteran—the melodies of modern industrial labor.
No, Io vowed within her thoughts. I'll stick to eggwork.
The brush caught on a knot of Perseph's hair. The woman cursed. "Wrigglers!"
"Sorry, Pers, I—"
"No, dammit, look at that! I knew it!" She bit her thumb at a shimmering holoribbon traversing the vaulted ceiling, carrying late commodities quotes from the Bio-Bourse.
"I knew I should've delivered three days ago. Look what's happened to solvent-filter prices since then! But no, I just had to try to put on those last few grams. Meconium!"
Snuffled grunts, and a phlegmatic fart, were her only answer.
"Damn cheap-model cleaners," she muttered. "I'd do better without 'em."
Embarrassed, Io looked around. But none of the other recovering workers riding nearby trolleys seemed to notice. Some slept complacently. A few spoke on hush phones, only their expressions hinting whether they were talking to agents or loved ones. Others watched soaps on tiny armrest TV sets while tailored enzymes dripped into their arms, cutting the time the Company had to maintain this service on overhead. The couch amenities were required under the Piecework Labor Act. There, at least, the guild had actually done some good.
A few of the ladies on nearby carts looked high already, probably on smuggled-in drugs, taking advantage of their very first moments free of surropreg discipline.
"Look, Pers, I'm glad I caught you coming out. But my lunch break's almost over, and I need a protein fix before going back to work."
"Work?" Perseph had a dark glitter in her eye. "You got a job now, too?"
"Uh, yeah." Io regretted the slip. "It's—only quarter-time, Pers. One of my teachers noticed my reading level was up to . . . well, I been filing records at a psycher's office. It's no big deal. . . ."
"School and a job. Crapadoodle." Perseph shrugged. "All right. Go squeeze in lunch." She jabbed idly toward Io's abdomen. "Can't let th' little toaster starve, can we?"
Perseph punched a button activating the Soap Channel on her armrest TV—no doubt to annoy Io, who quickly averted her eyes from the seductive, flickering images. Io avoided all addictions.
"Um, yeah. I'll—come and see you after you're back on your feet."
But Perseph had already focused on the detergent drama. "Ymmm," her friend said.
Stepping away, Io had to move nimbly to dodge a careening service cart. By instinct her hands moved protectively over her swelling belly. She felt motion within, responding to her risen heart rate—almost as if the thing inside her were actually alive.
Her tender left breast throbbed.
The usual crowd loitered by the exit, eyeing each weary pieceworker as she emerged blinking into the sunlight.
Pedicabbies offered rides home on government vouchers. Codders passed out their cards and offered to show off their license tattoos. The inevitable scraggly pair of Madrid Catholic protesters walked their well-worn tracks, placards drooping disconsolately.
The codders were the worst. Of course you had to have codders to run the sperm trade. Placental filter makers like Perseph could never afford to have their own genetic programming done. Even a bundle of high-quality platinum-sieves only paid off in five figures, and a woman was limited by law to twenty-five surropregs over a lifetime. So it was men who underwent the expensive treatments to have their reproductive cells modified, amortizing the cost against the commissions they received from each pieceworker who carried their wares.
The codders who haunted the exits of decanting centers were generally of a pretty low order—either desperate to grab their percentages on the spot, before their tired clients could blow their fees, or so hard up for customers they'd hawk their patterns to women coming straight off decanting.
The idea made Io feel queasy. Imagine even thinking about another knockup within two hours of labor!
And yet she saw several pieceworkers of her acquaintance emerge from the recovery bay and stroll gingerly over to the crowd of strutting males—all dressed in bright, tight-fitting tank tops, their multicolored leggings converging on codpieces tied with laced bows. The codders treated their prospective clients with exaggerated courtliness, offering folding stools, drinks, and sprays of flowers to any fem willing to sit and hear about their exciting, latest-model designs.
And they say romance is dead, Io thought ironically.
"Hey, Io, milady. You are the fair one, ain't yo'?"
Hair processed flat, parted down the middle in the latest style, his leggings were yellow and bright pink, and the padded codpiece a polkadot combination of the two. He was lacing up one side, as if he had just finished showing off his license to a client.
"Um. Hello, Colin." She nodded. The pale codder was part of Perseph's party circle and so, by convention, a friend of Io's as well. Though there were many types of friends.
"You're here furly early, no, Io?" He eyed her surropreg garb, barely yet filled out with the fruits of her own production.
"I came down to see Perseph." She nodded toward the recovery bay. Colin's eyes widened.
"Fave babe! Thanksyo, Io. I'll station this ever-welcome selfsame to whip out my card as she reenters th' hurly world."
"Just make sure that's all you whip out, Colin. There's ladies present."
Colin guffawed. As Io intended, he took her remar
k as a sarcastic, off-color jibe—unit coin in the strange protocol of jest-bonding. He couldn't know that on another level Io had meant every word literally.
"So when's your time to give over an' do your work the natchway, Io?"
"By 'natural' I assume you mean by grunt and shove? Letting a codder like you take ten percent of my fees and all the credit? No thanks, Colin. Eggwork may be harder, but it's between me an the designers—"
"Between you an' cold glass an' rubber, you mean!" Colin's stiff grin said this was still repartee, but his voice was chill. "An' you actually like it like that? Are you sure your profile reads hetero, Io? None of us boys see it that way."
Io felt a wave of anger. Who had told this cretin about her profile? Had Perseph? Was it possible to trust nobody?
Colin loomed over her, showing teeth. "Y'know, Io, sometimes we get an idea you think you're better than the rest of us. Just because you stayed in tweenie-school and prefer popping off toasters instead of honest filters, like your friends, that don't make you a watch-fobber. You were born down here, babe, Grunt 'n' shove is how you started."
Io's gut churned. In her Immature Interactions class she had begun learning how to parse exchanges like this—the way Colin was trying to intimidate her with words, body stance, and vague, intimated threats of friendship withdrawal. Funny how you took this sort of thing for granted, until the day someone showed you it was a process, and suddenly it looked silly and primitive.
Theory was fine. But practical applications weren't in her curriculum till next term. Oh, what the hell. Io decided she really didn't care what this tissue-stuffer thought of her, anyway.
"Read my lips, Colin." She mouthed words in street talk. "Wrigglers . . . count zero; joppy floppy."
Colin rocked back and his hands began a zigzag motion to avert bad luck. Too late, he caught himself. "Heh ho, Io." He grinned, glancing to see if anyone had noticed. "Very funny."
Io winked. "Didn't mean it, Colin. Keep 'em high, boy. Both count and jopper."
She left before he could reply, making off through the rank of pedicabs, past the limp, resigned pickets, across the bus lanes and out into the streets of Liverpool proper. The crowds were as she'd always known them, teeming, bustling. All her life Io had been awash in a sea of people.
Colored synthetic fabrics were cheap. So nobody dressed shabby unless they wanted to. It took a sharp eye to pick out types—the dole-fed majority, who spent their days seeking distraction at state-subsidized entertainments—then those with service jobs and some status—and finally the elite, the proud ones, those with real work to do. Mostly the difference could be found in the eyes. Workers had a look . . . as if they belonged in the world and weren't just marking time. It made Io more determined than ever to stay in school. To fight for not just any certificate, but the highest. Nothing less would slake the hunger in her soul.
A sudden wet touch behind her right knee sent panic flashes up her spine. She whirled, heart pounding. Io looked down, and sighed.
Bright brown eyes briefly met hers. A wet nose snuffled. Its fur was shaded in the blue-and-yellow bee-striping of official authority . . . the colors of a traffic cop.
The doglike creature, programmed with perfect knowledge of the vehicle code, dismissed Io with a snort and moved on. Traffic cops never forgot a face or odor, never forgave an infraction until the fine was paid. Watching it wander off through the crowd, Io found it hard to believe highly skilled pieceworkers like herself once manufactured such creatures, back when the beasts were experimental, before a final model was certified to reproduce itself.
Still sniffing, hunting violators, the traffic cop turned and disappeared into the crowd. Io rested her back against a store display window as people surged by. She looked down the street, seeking distraction as her heart rate slowly settled again.
Apparently it was rubbish day. Open-lidded green bins showed that the first set of lorries had already been by. But red, yellow, and silver dustbins still stood tightly sealed on the curbs, awaiting pickup. Io saw a Recycle-Authority policeman ticketing a local merchant for failing to sort all the nonferric metals out of his organic mulch. The dispirited proprietor got no sympathy from passersby. Certainly not from Io, as she picked a route through the crowds toward a lunchstand where she could sit down to a cheap but palatable meal.
At least there's less rationing lately, though they say it can come back anytime.
Io wasn't really hungry, but that didn't matter. She ate more for the thing within her than for herself.
The "toaster," Perseph and Colin had called it.
"I don't do home appliances," she said under her breath.
Still, the street slang struck Io with its wry aptness. Again, the product throbbed within her.
2.
. . . By year 2010 overpopulation had brought on three ominous consequences. The first of these had been foreseen by thoughtful people long before . . . that the needs of over ten billion human beings simply exceeded the carrying capacity of the planet. Topsoil, mineral ores, fresh water, and the genetic pool of natural species were among the nonrenewable resources rapidly being depleted. Alternative, sustainable practices had to be found, and quickly.
A second effect of overpopulation, however, went almost unnoticed until quite late, and that was the matter of creative unemployment.
Most interim solutions enabling society to feed and house the billions arose out of productive technologies controlled by a small, elite labor force. The rest of humanity was utterly dependent, unable to make any noticeable difference. Some countries masked this by providing "jobs" in a "service economy," but in the long run serious alienation grew out of the frustrated human need to do work that is appreciated, work that is of real value to society.
There was a third great problem—misapplication of education. For while mammoth literacy campaigns had elevated the general level of culture, a great many people spent years learning to do things that actually required little, if any, real facility. Meanwhile, the most delicate, most demanding job in history was being performed almost universally by unskilled labor. . . .
Io closed the book when twinges in her left breast surged again—prolactin-powered hot flashes that were made worse by a basic lateral imbalance.
The clash was fundamental. On one side an organ had been modified by premier industrial technicians and was now setting up to execute complex designer chemistry. At the same time, however, out from under her other arm protruded its conservative twin. Responding to pregnancy hormones, that breast was happily creating archaic precursors to next-to-useless fluids, screwing with her brain, making her imagine impossible things.
Though Io tried to hide her discomfort, her agent noticed as he performed her weekly checkup.
"I warned you against leaving one tit in natch-state," Joey reminded her while taking color readings and sonograms of each gland. "Here I get you a bid to produce a really choice secondary product, Mobil's latest lubricant for high-torque tools, and you insist on setting up at only half capacity! You know what that does to your rep, Io? It advertises that you aren't serious about going full-time pro. What am I to do with you?"
Io put her textbook aside. "You'll let me do it my way, Joey. That's what. Anyway, I'll be producing with my left breast, also."
"Producing what? Colostrum and homosap milk? What'll we do with that, make cheese? Have you seen the latest futures? With birthrates down again, they're a glut on the market!"
"They won't be when I deliver," she assured him. "Trust me."
The General Diagnostics surropreg monitor buzzed a reassuring, complacent sound where it would have blared for bad news. Pushing back a wisp of thinning blond hair, Io's agent tore free a printout of her checkup results, while still muttering irritably. "Trust me, she says! What are you doing, Io, reciting my lines? I'm the one who's supposed to say 'trust me.' You? You're supposed to say, 'Oh, Joey, I don't know what I'd ever do without you.'"
"That's what I like about you, Joey. You're even mor
e old-fashioned than I am."
As if to confirm it, and apparently unaware of the irony, Joey put on archaic eye-spectacles to scan the test results. "You call it old-fashioned to retire on me, just when we've got that body of yours tuned to premium capacity? Whatever happened to the work ethic?"
"I want to work," Io affirmed as she craned to read the chart for herself. "I just want to move up to a more demanding job."
As expected, everything was nominal. Io took care of her body. She picked up her blouse. "So can I button up now? Or are you getting turned on by preggirls these days?"
"Sarcastic too. Just for that I won't tell you what I think you're carrying. You can find out on delivery day. Get dressed and out of here, Io."