Man Made Man (Phoenician #1)

By Marjorie F. Baldwin

Raif was never meant to be a Proctor, he knows that about himself; but then what was he designed to be—or who? Why are there thoughts and memories floating around in his mind about people he’s never met? How did he acquire all the skills and knowledge he seems to have? What was he designed to be? Is he even human?

Proctors don't think--or they shouldn't. A Proctor is supposed to follow orders but a Proctor named Raif can't STOP thinking. He's different and he knows it. He was MADE differently. Who made him and why? And what was he designed to BE anyway? With thoughts and memories that can't be his own and donors from over a dozen genetic lines, all Raif knows for certain is that he was never designed to be a Proctor.

When Raif tries to find out the truth about his origins, he makes an even more horrifying discovery: his genetic design doesn't exist. There's no record of him in the Breeding Selections. The Archival records supposedly contain every human ever designed but he's not listed. Was he supposed to be MADE or was his design some kind of experimental theory never meant to leave a laboratory dish? Was he given life by accident or was he made for some specific reason?

In MAN MADE MAN, Raif searches for answers and instead finds the Phoenicians, strange people that human records claim are indigenous to the planet yet still not understood by humans even after 400 years of sharing a planet.

When the Phoenician Seven Chiefs learn of Raif's personal quest, they decide to help him. Of course, they're not just being nice. It's the Seven Chiefs, so there's always a Plan!

Now the question Raif will have to answer is whether he's a man who was made for their Plan or if their Plan was made for him?

WARNING: This book contains graphic violence which can be extreme at times, small amounts of explicit sexual content and frequently uses language which may offend some readers. This book may not be appropriate for audiences of all ages. Rating: MA-LSV

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phoenician Books
• Release date: Dec 5, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311044570

Marjorie F. Baldwin

Marjorie F. Baldwin (aka "Friday") is a pen name used to write Science Fiction technothrillers, SF action/adventure series, some time travel short stories or novellas and old School SciFi. Friday's style will appeal to fans of Romantic SF (or SFR) since like Heinlein's character after whom she is named, she feels sex is part of the human condition. Of course, that assumes we're all human ^)^

Book preview

Part One: ORIGINS (The Community)

Chapter 1: Stolen

It didn’t just vanish unless—wait! Did the sample case spontaenously grow legs and walk out of the lab all by itself? Instant evolution. I can just see it now! The man in the vid walked his fingers across the air in a mocking dramatization of how this would work.

Dr. Cory Jansen looked down as if to rearrange the items on his desk thus preventing the man from seeing him roll his eyes. He then bit down on his lower lip to keep himself from responding to the sarcasm. It wasn’t easy controlling himself when the Administrator started. Joshua Andrew Caine could push every one of Cory’s buttons—and had been doing so long before he became the Administrator. Cory knew that today, however, Joshua was just frustrated, venting on someone he could trust. He had good reason, and Cory knew it, so he’d take it and not retaliate. Keeping Joshua calm was all that mattered right now. Joshua Andrew Caine didn’t lose control, so this obvious loss of control now was a sign of even worse things to come. Cory was more concerned with forestalling the inevitable outcome than engaging in the current petty argument.

Joshua was one of the most focused and logical—and controlled—men in existence. He’d had to be in order to do the job of Administrator but even before that, just to survive in his unique state of mind, he’d had to learn to control his emotions. His proclivity for rational thought and ability to control his emotional outbursts were Joshua Andrew Caine’s two greatest assets. His conversations didn’t devolve into petty arguments. Or not unless or until he was beginning to devolve, for lack of a better word.

Cory was disappointed to see this happening so early in the cycle. They’d done this four times already. This fifth version of the man was supposed to last longer. The breakdown wasn’t due to a problem with Cory’s cloning process or even the underlying design of the man. Cory couldn’t even blame Stafar Baghendi’s experimental redesign, merging the two now-dead men into this hybrid man they were calling Joshua Andrew Caine. It wasn’t Stafar’s doing alone either; he’d only gotten the process started. It had been something not human at all that had made this hybrid man that they now called the Administrator. Humans hadn’t created him. The Phoenicians had done it.

The Seven Chiefs had done something magical to him. Cory called it magical because neither himself nor anyone else in the Community could decipher the science behind what the Phoenicians had done. It had to have been magic! When Cory had examined the merged man, he’d discovered the changes at the genetic level. They’d literally reconstructed his genetic print and redesigned his brain to accommodate the second person they’d shoved into his skull. He was now designed to function more effectively than either of the originals ever had, and they’d reorganized all the data in his mind rewriting his memory map so that the two men they’d merged could work as a cohesive unit. They’d made two men into one—and they’d done it in vivo, no less! Cory had been trying to reverse-engineer the Phoenician work for more than four hundred years but he still couldn’t figure it out, let alone try to reproduce it. If Joshua Andrew Caine died without a viable Heir, it’d be impossible to replace him but the hybrid design wasn’t viable. All Cory could do was resort to reproducing the original, or as close to the original as he could manage to clone—and the repros never lasted long enough.

Cory knew the signs of Joshua's degradation and he was helpless to stop it. This short-temperedness was one of the first symptoms to rear its ugly head. Next would be distraction, then the actual forgetfulness would set in and by then, the man’s temper would have become unbearable. Of course, that was when the physical deterioration of his body would turn critical and they’d have to kill him to put him out of his misery. Or theirs, depending on one’s perspective. It was just so hard always having to say good bye to this man—then saying hello again and still not having any answers about how to fix him. It was a doctor’s worst nightmare to face his one failed patient again and again. Worse, Cory knew that one of these days, he’d have to say good bye for good. The recursive errors were propagating. He couldn’t keep cloning something he didn’t design or even understand.

Cory had tried to reproduce the man’s mind as an Artificial Intelligence, hypothesizing they could just install the brilliance and personality into some progeny of Scherrer’s, since they had plenty of Joshua Scherrer’s original genetic material. Unfortunately, that was easier said than done. Mapping memory wasn’t the same as defining personality. Cory couldn’t just draw a diagram of the merged man’s ego and build them all a new Adminstrator. It had instigated the search into mapping memory, though, so some good had come of the failure.

It was possible now to record—and even review or rewrite—human memory. It took more than one mapping to get the whole thing and the map had to be updated all the time to keep it current, but they had a complete picture of the Administrator’s memory. If only they had some idea of what to do with it. They’d perfected Stafar’s process of genetically-encoding memory, as though it were animal instinct, and passing it on from one generation to the next during an artificially-controlled reproductive process.

They could virtually program a person during the blastocyst stage, the first five or six days after fertilization. Effectively, they could transfer a lifetime of memories into the pre-embryonic cells by encoding the memories onto the unused portions of the genetic material in the nucleii of the cells. This let them capture the data, the life experiences, but not the personality, the temperament, the essence of what made the person who he was. If they could figure out how to do that, they could transfer Joshua Andrew Caine’s mind—his memories and his personality—into a new body, a clean slate, genetically speaking. Such a person could become the new Administrator and be the Administrator indefinitely.

Of course, they’d turned that failure into a good thing, too. They’d used the memory mapping and genetic encoding process to make Original Members of the Community virtually immortal. It enabled them to maintain the intellectual continuity necessary for the establishment and expansion of the human colony on this planet by just a fraction of the personnel originally planned to execute such an undertaking. They had a tightly-controlled system for reproducing humans now, and the world wasn’t perfect, far from it, but at least it was controllable by the tiny fraction of Original Members who’d survived to run it. Even so, they still needed an Administrator to oversee and manage everyone. The Administrator wasn’t king; he had no rights, just responsibilities. The Administrator made the hard decisions the others couldn’t—or wouldn’t.

Cory had tried to come at the problem from the other end and just make a new Administrator from scratch. After all, he was just a man when you got right down to it. A highly-intelligent and exceedingly talented man but just a man nonetheless. Cory had spent over twenty-six years combining DNA strands from  over two dozen genetic donors and come up with the ultimate design. It had been perfect—almost. It had been inside that sample case, and there’d been just one little problem left, something Cory could easily resolve in just another day or two in his lab. He had an issue with the telomeres decaying prematurely as the dense genetic clusters in the cell nucleii tried to divide and reproduce. Or so the simulations had suggested.

Once Cory fixed that cellular replication process, the new Administrator would make history. He wouldn’t even be human anymore, or just barely. He’d be better than human. Cory had made a new kind of human. The Administrator’s Heir would be better, faster and more robust than the current Administrator, Joshua Andrew Caine—or than any other human on the planet. He’d be the first of his kind, a new phase in human evolution.

No, he would be the future of all of humanity. Cory could integrate the Administrator’s Heir back into the human population through careful manipulation of the Breeding Selections. The Heir was absolutely irreplaceable in his own right but more so because he represented the culmination of scientific research that simply couldn’t be repeated. There not only wasn’t sufficient genetic material for a second try; they were out of time—as Joshua’s ranting today proved. They needed that sample case back and they needed it now.

Except that it was gone and it did not appear to be coming back.

Joshua crossed his arms over his chest and in a very Scherrer-like voice, said "At least admit to me that you lost it, Cory. You owe me that much."

The Administrator started pacing behind his desk in the Administrator’s Study, a small room about a kilometer underground—on the other side of the city’s center. Far, far away. Or far enough, anyway. Cory disliked the Joshua Scherrer side of the man. Cory harbored a secret belief that losing the Russian egotist was no loss at all, but he was afraid of Scotsman Andrew Caine. Andrew had been affable enough most of the time, but when his temper ignited and combined with Scherrer’s superiority complex, the merged man was terrifying.

Physically, the Administrator was formidable. He stood one-ninety-three centimeters to Cory’s one-seventy-two, making the Administrator’s large frame loom just by standing there, breathing. His ninety plus kilos of solid muscle were honed into a military-grade killing machine that accentuated the lab stool softness of Cory’s eighty-kilo middle-aged physique, lately replete with a paunch for effect. No, Cory did not want to ignite the Administrator’s short fuse, not even from across town.

At physical peak for now, Joshua Andrew Caine’s body wouldn’t degrade  for another twenty years, plus or minus five. Mentally, however, it appeared that the damage had already begun. The mind was always the first to go. Then a thought occurred to Cory. What if Joshua Andrew Caine wasn’t angry? What if he was scared half out of his mind? What if he knew he was deteriorating, if he was actually self-aware enough to know what was happening to him? That would be a new development in the degradation process.

It would also endorse the argument that this man, this fifth-generation copy of a copy, would have to be the last Joshua Andrew Caine. Well, that had been Plan A all along anyway. They just hadn’t quite come up with a viable Plan B and it seemed like they were going to need Plan B sooner rather than later. The one thing the Community couldn’t afford was to have no Administrator, not even for a few years. The Administrator made life and death decisions affecting hundreds of thousands of lives on an hourly basis.

Given Cory’s failed attempts at installing the Administrator’s mind like an Artificial Intelligence into some fresh blank slate of a man, they’d turned to more drastic options for a Plan B. They’d tried to replace him completely with an Artificial Lifeform a few decades ago when this current version had first taken charge. Joshua had worked with the Conditioned Human Response Series machine himself, one on one, but the CHRS had been a glorious failure.

It was a miracle they hadn’t lost everything. From the Archives to the Breeding Selections, the CHRS had touched and destroyed nearly every file, wanting to rebuild the world in its own image or some such explanation. It had taken Joshua, himself, years to reconstruct it all again. From memory! Only the Administrator—the current Administrator—could have done that. The fact the world hadn’t come crashing to a halt was no small feat. Joshua Andrew Caine had forced an internal concensus on the subject, though, and the Community’s Membership had voted to make it illegal to even fabricate the parts for another CHRS. No one would be making that mistake again.

Of course, that had left them no choice but to accelerate the schedule on creating an Administrator’s Heir and now, here they were with no Heir and no Plan B. Maybe that had been the point. Maybe this theft was some kind of coup against the government. Was someone attempting to destabilize the World Council by taking the Administrator out of play? How could anyone have known Joshua’s mind was deteriorating?

Joshua, Cory asked slowly, what do you think about the idea of this being a political attack—on your office, I mean, not you, personally?

The image of Joshua stopped pacing and spun around to face the vid pickup at the desk. Thank God, maybe he’d hold still before Cory lost his lunch.

Political? Joshua stroked at his beard and hummed, considering the possibility. Maybe Cory wasn’t so far off after all. No. Joshua finally said decisively and started pacing. He paced far enough away before turning that the vid pickups on the other side of the room grabbed focus, changing Cory’s point of view of the man, then releasing focus and switching back to the vid pickup on the desk when Joshua turned, then back again. And again. If he kept that up for much longer, Cory was going to get motion sick again.

Joshua stopped and said, "No, I already considered and rejected that possibility ten minutes ago while you were blathering on about your lab techs being so trustworthy. I determined there was no one on the Council today with sufficient aspirations combined with sufficient financial means to pull this off. There would have to be a lot of bribes paid to kidnap my Heir, remove him from the building and ransom him all without getting caught. There are access logs, security logs, financial logs, though money is fairly easy to hide." Joshua swung a hip over the edge of the desk, despite his large, comfortable chair being right there waiting for him.

Besides, Joshua went on, swinging his leg now, so that his heel hit the side of the desk on each return. I don’t appoint the Council; they’re voted in. I just oversee them. I reviewed the last six months’ history of Council rulings, and there’s been nothing on the dockets to suggest any political gain in attacking me. None of my rulings has overturned anyone of significant influence. Unless you have more data to offer, I say this wasn’t a political move. I’m convinced it was personal—and that one of your lab techs did it—but I have no motive for either of them other than money. Couldn’t one of them have been bribed? Are you sure you pay them enough?

The man was like a dog with a bone—or rather, given there were no dogs on this planet, a Gorthon Worm with a bone. I pay them hideously well. My assistants were both personally cleared by William anyway. They’re Class Threes with absolutely nothing to gain by selling out. I pay them more than a Privilege Class for God’s sake! It wasn’t one of my techs.

But don’t you see? They’re not Privilege Class, so there’s still room to advance. They might want to buy their way out of Class Three status. That law is still on the books despite my best efforts to remove it. Your two techs both have room for corruption. One of them could have—

"No! Just stop. My lab assistants are not corrupt and couldn’t be bought at any price. They like working in my lab. It’s about the prestige of being the First Assistant to the Chief of Genetics for Robert. As for George, he’s very happy with his position as my Second Assistant. He knows Robert won’t stay in this job forever and he’s happy enough to wait his turn in line. He hardly even renegotiated his salary with me last month when it came time for his review. George isn’t in it for the money. Besides, I pay them both more than enough to meet their needs. They’re far more interested in peer recognition than money. It’s not them. They’re not bribeable."

"Everyone’s bribeable, Cory. It’s just a matter of finding their currency so if they don’t want money, maybe someone promised one of them public recognition of their—"

"No! I’m sorry, Joshua, but someone else took the sample for some other reason. If you’re convinced it’s not political, fine, then it’s personal. Maybe Dramond? His family vendetta against you goes back…shit, all the way back to the first Dramond. I’ll never understand why you approved that line’s entry into the gene pool in the first place."

"Because, Cory, Dramond’s family line was one of the few in the Vault not to degrade completely and we need the genetic diversity. It wasn’t Dramond. He lacks the financial wherewithall to pull this off. He was one of my first suspects but if he has any money hidden anywhere, I haven’t found it and you know I’d see so much as a five-credit variation from his normal spending habits."

Yeah, okay. Cory grumbled. Rene-Michel Dramond was one of a long family line who had some kind of grudge against Andrew Caine. Cory had never gotten the whole story, but he understood it went all the way back to Earth. The Dramond Family had tried to get representation in the Original Membership and instead, had only managed to get one of the very expensive assignments of genetic material to be stored in the Vault, the cryogenic storage container with one million genetic profiles the Community had brought with them into space when they’d fled Earth. The Dramonds had been one of the first revived because, as Joshua had correctly noted, they were one of the few still viable after the Vault suffered a hardware failure following the crash. It had been amazing that they’d been able to save anything at all from the Vault once the hardware had failed. Out of the million profiles, called the legacy lines, they’d salvaged only partial representations from about ten percent of them. The rest of humanity’s gene pool was gone. Forever. Those ten thousand, together with the thirty-five Original Members who’d survived, were the full extent with which Cory was to re-establish the species. Not an easy task if they were ever to become self-sustaining, but so far, his methods of carefully selecting randomizations to insert manually had worked.

Cory said, "If not Dramond, then there are dozens of other people who’ve formed a personal grudge against you in the last year alone. I believe you’ve pissed off a majority of the people who’ve ever had personal contact with you."

Joshua stared at Cory a moment then said, dryly, Thank you for observing my affability. I shall endeavour to make more friends—just as soon as you find a way for me to live long enough to do it!

Cory tried to suppress his smirk and said, I’m just saying we should start looking at your enemies, Joshua, one at a time, starting with the legacies. They’ll all have grudges and most will have the money to destroy records and buy access to my lab.

I thought you just said your lab techs were not bribeable?

"I did and they’re not, but the lab was empty when I came in this morning. That means Proctors, security personnel, or administrative techs—dozens of people could have been bribed into faking emergency access codes to get in here without witnesses. That’s all it would take someone already inside the building to get into my lab. Declare an emergency. They’d have to time it right but it’s not hard. My schedule’s public information. The sample was here when George left at oh three hundred. He left me a vid message showing me last night’s test results and I could see the case sitting there next to his hand—which is exactly where he said he was leaving it. Then the lab was empty for three hours until I came in at oh six hundred. That’s plenty of time to break in and erase the logs behind you."

All right, I’ll start searching for this imaginary low-level perpetrator in the overnight shifts. Maybe one of my black market informants has a lead on something going up for auction. If someone wanted to ransom the Heir, they’d have to set up a secure auction in advance.

God, Joshua, if that sample ends up on the black market—

"It won’t. We can’t have a black market without some level of control and I still control it. I’ll have first bidding rights, guaranteed—if it goes that far! The sample might not have left the building yet. The bioscanners would show tampering if the thief tried to alter the security records so I’ll have William double-check all entry and exit records over the last two days. It’s not as though my Heir’s profile won’t be noticeable on the logs. They’d have to delete its existence entirely and that leaves room for another kind of error, an exit code with no matching entry, for instance. Maybe we’ll get lucky."

Cory was pleased to see the detective side of Andrew diving in and attacking the problem. Cory said, "While you work that end, I’ll put out a silent alert to my MedTechs over in Psych to profile a list of suspects. I can also work this from the other end. Assuming it doesn’t leave the building and God forbid they do try to slip it into the production line, I’ll send a few extra interns over to the Institute to look for suspicious behavior. Someone who’s sneaking in an unauthorized production is bound to get nervous if too many people watch over his shoulder. William can set up supervisory shifts to make everyone feel like their every move is being watched. Someone will get antsy. And I can personally review every new design request but if they’re doctoring records, having another person physically standing there watching you ought to break anyone’s nerve. Who knows? I might uncover other sorts of violations I didn’t know I had on the production lines."

Glad my future self could be of service to you, but let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, Cory. Who knows what a standard production process would do to him. I pray for his sake he remains a splotch of genetic material in a petri dish. Then again, production might speed up the search. If they give him a Learning Lab or an Orientation, something that requires his print to go through the system, I’ll see that insanely-dense profile right away, and we can recover him. I suppose we could wipe his mind clean and start again. I’ll make sure to scan production records every ten minutes until we locate him. That should also keep me occupied enough I don’t annoy you—and yes, you can stop glowering at me now. I know you’re annoyed. So am I. We’re even.

Cory watched as Joshua tapped at his datapanel, no doubt setting up a display of human production records to scroll by over his desk. I don’t really see how we can wipe him clean, Joshua, not if you want him to have his own personality. Besides, he might not survive a standard production process. It’s not just a deficiency in the process; it’s him. He’s not ready, remember? That telomere issue is still unresolved so if we don’t stop—

If we can intercept the Heir before production, we will, Cory, but if we can’t, we need to have the source material back. It’s irreplaceable! We’ll figure out what to do with him once we have him. Maybe….

Maybe what? Cory wanted to stop him from even starting to hope along those lines. They couldn’t do anything with the Heir if he’d already gone through production. He’d just be spare parts—and likely, defective spare parts. Maybe have the same replication errors cloning him that we’ve had cloning you? We can’t use him post-production. We’ll end up right back here. We need to find the sample dish.

A production would be better than nothing.

No, actually, I think nothing might be better. Look, Joshua, give me a few days to run a search but I think we need to accept that the sample is gone, and we’re not getting it back. We’ve got about fifty years left to start looking at that backup plan.

What backup plan? Joshua mumbled then put a hand up and in a characteristic move, scraped his hand down over his beard, then flattened his moustache tips down with his thumb and forefinger. He didn’t lower his hand again, though, so it was hard to hear what he said when he spoke, but Cory heard enough. You know I won’t last another fifty years, Cory. We don’t have time to come up with a backup plan. Joshua lowered his hand and made eye contact through the vid pickup. "We need to figure out who’s going to do this job in ten or fifteen years—if it takes that long for me to completely lose my mind. Someone needs to start training—now. That’s our backup plan."

Cory could create people to populate the complicated political system their collective offspring had set up in the world but running it was definitely above his pay grade.

Chapter 2: Sold

Rene-Michel Dramond had no idea what made this thing so special but if the high and mighty Joshua Andrew Caine had ordered Cory Jansen, the Chief of Genetic Research, to work on it himself, then it must be special. Getting the sample case out of the lab had been easier than expected. One simple bribe and an ambitious lab tech had turned it right over to him. What had the world come to when Class Threes were taking bribes? This was how Caine ran things. Under Dramond’s tutelage, the Department of Security was going to make some changes to the way things were done around here.

But first he had to do something with this damned sample case now that he had possession of it. He tapped the vacuum-sealed container against his palm and wondered again what made this genetic profile so special. Was it related to Caine? Maybe this was Caine’s very own Designated Heir? The Administrator’s Heir? What a tantalizing thought!

The number on the outside, L235861794-C-, sounded like a perfectly normal, randomly-generated Citizen Number for a Generation L production batch. The sample hadn’t yet been assigned a Class code but that was easy enough to fix. Dramond decided that if he made this sample a Class One, he could control it without any question. He was a Councillor, after all, albeit a Junior Councillor, but Councillors had privileges even higher than Privilege Class Citizens. Such as ordering Class Ones around on a whim. Being a Councillor gave him an intoxicating kind of power. His family line had held a Seat on the World Council since the very first Dramond had come out of the crèche. Now he knew why—and he’d be damned before he’d let Caine make  him the last Dramond on the Council. Not one of his forebears had allowed the Administrator Caine of his generation to dictate to him. Rene-Michel would absolutely not be the weak link in his family line.

He pressed the fingernail of his fat little pinky into the contact under the suffix and held it down until the trailing characters switched over to read C1. He held the contact down, waiting for it to blink three times then turn solid, permanently assigning the sample inside the case a status of Class One. Status? Hah. This pet project of Caine’s was now at the bottom of the food chain. What poetic justice! As Administrator, Caine was even more privileged than a Senior Councillor. His Heir—if that’s what this was—would now be among the least privileged of people on the planet.

Dramond still needed somewhere to hide this thing and make sure it couldn’t be traced back to him. At the same time, he didn’t want to lose track of it. He might be able to leverage it at some future date. Where to hide something so it could neither be found nor lost?

The case would be more difficult to hide than if he had it made into a man but Dramond didn’t have anything to do with the Breeding Selections—or not yet—so he’d have to send this through the production line. Then what? Have it made into a domestic servant? That might work but if this really was the Administrator’s Heir, Dramond didn’t want him to be seen in public where someone might recognize him. Even worse, if Dramond allowed him out in public, the man might walk through a bioscanner and draw attention to himself by mere virtue of his genetic profile. It wasn’t as though Class Ones had any business walking into public offices and government facilities, all of which were secured with genetic scans at all access points, but one never knew. The man might inherit the arrogance and self-righteousness of his progenitor.

No, Dramond would keep the man secured in his home, under lockdown in the Private Residence until he’d been fully-trained—in every sense of the word. He could model some specialized training after the Proctor Orientation. Proctors were obedient and loyal. Yes, that was it, a private domestic-style Proctor. Off the books, of course. He could absolutely control the man that way.

Dramond took two steps and paused again. If this really was the Administrator’s Heir, he’d still have to worry about someone on the production line recognizing the unusual genetic profile or worse, the man’s face when they cracked the can. Maybe he should specify cosmetic changes to the man’s appearance. He could claim he had some special fondness for a specific hair and eye color, and he’d have to have them darken the skin tone. The Administrator’s fair complexion and coloring was fairly rare and well-known. Darken the skin, pick one of the less popular hair colors—maybe orange. How many people actually came to Dramond’s Private Residence, anyway? If he made the man look odd enough, no one would think he was related to the Administrator. Yes, this was the perfect plan.

Pleased with himself and his plan, Dramond started back down the wide main staircase to the Second Assistant Director’s office and told the receptionist to announce him. The Institute’s Second Assistant Director wasn’t particularly fond of Administrator Caine either. More importantly, he knew his place when dealing with Privilege Class Citizens. Dramond knew his money would be good here. Caine couldn’t buy everyone on the planet even if he did own half of them.

When the receptionist showed Dramond in, the man behind the desk rose and bowed curtly in deference to his Privilege Class visitor. Dramond had been cursed with a short stature, barely standing over one and a half meters tall, and the Second Assistant was at least twenty centimeters taller than himself. It seemed insulting for the man to loom over his esteemed guest that way. Dramond decided on the spot that his Heir was going to be redesigned to be at least one-hundred eighty centimeters tall. Or taller. And lean, he added as an after-thought, having always hated his personal struggle to keep his weight down. It was a metabolic problem that he shouldn’t have to work so hard exercising to counteract. These sorts of things were his progenitor’s fault. A person could be designed to be any height or weight one wanted. It was just a matter of forethought and money. Obviously his own progenitor had been a cheap bastard.

The man on the other side of the desk remained standing, since Dramond had not taken a seat, and spoke with perfect elocution. Maybe Dramond should ask what Language Labs the man had been given to produce such a refined accent. Dramond’s first Heir would have only the best while Caine’s would be forced to serve and scrape at his feet. This plan was getting better the longer he thought it through.

Councillor Dramond, how good of you to stop by. How may we be of service today? Please, please, have a seat and may I get you anything to drink?

What you may get me is this, Dramond extended his hand with the sample container in it, Class One—and I’ll need it produced in an expedited fashion. I find myself unexpectedly short-staffed.

The man pressed his lips together as though he found the remark amusing and Dramond realized his poor choice of words. Well, he hadn’t had the best Language Labs, obviously, because the previous Dramond had been an idiot and cheapskate. Rene-Michel’s Designated Heir to the Dramond family line would have a much better set of Language Labs, only the best that money could buy. He shook the sample container impatiently at the man. The Second Assistant Director looked down at the case for a moment, then while still standing, reached one hand over to the datapad and entered the number into the system.

I’m so sorry, Councillor Dramond. I did, indeed, hear the news that you lost some of your Proctors last month in that terrible altercation. Has it been so very difficult to find suitable replacements in the Unemployment Bin?

"Oh, I found enough unemployed discards for my Proctor team. This is something else entirely. I want that one made. Can you do it or not?"

Of course, we can, Councillor, my apologies, I was just trying to expedite things for you.

I’ll pay the usual expediting fees—but no permits for that one.

Really? Well, the Second Assistant Director started to sit down then stopped halfway, noting that Dramond still hadn’t taken a seat, himself, so Dramond dropped his frame into the small chair. It was uncomfortably small for his wide frame and his feet just barely reached the floor unless he slouched. He sat up straight and told himself no one would notice if his toes reached the floor.

Tell me, Councillor Dramond, were you planning to add this man to your household staff or to the office?

What difference does that make?

Well, a personal Class One servant is substantially less-expensive than say, a receptionist, who’ll need to be educated on the subtleties of social grace. It’s all a matter of the education, you see.

On a whim, Dramond decided the Second Assistant’s first idea sounded better. Make him a Proctor.

A—are you certain, Sir? That’s a very specific set of protocols in addition to the Learning Labs. We’ll need to schedule him for the— The man stopped tapping at his datapanel and looked Dramond in the eye. Where did you get this sample, Councillor Dramond?

"Why does that matter now?"

The number—I might have made a mistake but I’ve entered it three times and—I’m sorry, Councillor Dramond, but this sample is not coming up in the system, the Second Assistant laughed nervously, We’re all a little embarrassed here today. There was some sort of silly mix-up going on upstairs. All very hush-hush but every number we enter is being monitored and…this number is sending up a flag, I’m afraid. Chief Jansen, himself, issued an alert requesting notification of all genetic samples entering or exiting the building.

I don’t want you to take it out of the building. I want you to send it downstairs and make it into a Proctor. What is this? Are you trying to charge me more than the usual expediting fees? Never mind. Give it back. I should be doing business with Chief Jansen himself from now on. Obviously, you don’t need the money. Dramond lifted his nose in the air and held out his hand for the sample. He knew it would not be returned.

The Second Assistant flustered and held the container to his breast, splaying his hands over it in either apology or possession, Dramond wasn’t sure which but he found the reaction delightfully theatrical.

Councillor Dramond, I didn’t mean to offend you. Of course, I can manage this special order for you. There’s no need to bother Director Jansen, but—please, just give me a moment while I find a way through the system to bypass this embarrassing glitch. The Second Assistant tapped wildly at the datapanel and swiped screens through the air over the side of his desk, searching for an appropriate form, Dramond presumed. Was there really a form for accepting bribes and disobeying an order from the Chief of Genetics? Well, if there was, this Second Assistant certainly seemed determined to find it and he surely knew how to use it.

After several long moments, the Second Assistant squealed, There! I knew it was here somewhere. The man sat back and sighed, looking at the blank form as though he’d just seen his first true love. Now, he sat up straight and interlaced his fingers then turned his hands over and pressed outwardly with a crack of his knuckles. How vulgar. With one hand poised over the datapanel, the Second Assistant Director continued with a very businesslike chirp, Shall we use the same fee arrangements as last time? Half payment down to begin production and half upon delivery? Expedition fees extra, of course.

Dramond  hadn’t expected the man to pass up ten thousand untraceable credits, twenty if he kept all of the fees and arranged to bury the production in departmental costs. Yes, some men could be bought and they knew enough to stay bought.

That will be fine. How quickly you can get that thing up and talking?

"Well, of course, that depends on the educational choices you’d like to make. You said Proctor so may I assume you wanted a full complement of physical and evasive strategies, weapons and—wait, will he be a personal Proctor or used in your office? We have some specials running for the Council assignments but I’m sorry, I don’t recall your earlier answer."

That’s because Dramond hadn’t given one. "Neither, both, I don’t know. I just need the man added to my property holdings and you don’t need to enter him into the system. I want no records of the purchase or production, especially not with the glitches your records are having today."

Of course, I didn’t mean to imply we’d keep billing records, just the usual medical history and—

Will five thousand extra credits, to you, personally, make all of his records disappear, including the medical history?

The Second Assistant looked up, eyes wide and hungry. Oh, yes, I see and, look at that! We have an opening on the schedule to start him tonight with the new Proctor batch on line one. If you’d like to purchase the expedited growth hormone…? Dramond nodded. The man tapped again, no doubt adding another three thousand credits to the illegal books for this private transaction. Shall we say ten days to grow it to full term and make it ready for an Orientation? We’ll need three days after we wake him up to get him walking and talking, of course. Will you be needing any special skills added? We have a new set of domestic services courses, not usually for Proctors, but these courses just came online—

Can’t you get this done any faster? What if you assign shifts around the clock to service the crèche? Keep his Learning Labs going the whole time? Couldn’t you trim a few days off that way?

The Second Assistant cleared his throat. Well, it doesn’t usually work that way, we like to allow the production a rest period every twelve hours and I’ll have to pay for overtime out of pocket to keep it off the books… The Second Assistant paused, trying to judge his customer’s mood today. I could possibly work in an extra few shifts. That’ll add an extra six thousand bringing the total up from...let's see, twenty plus six to expedite plus three for the ehanced growth hormone and of course I'm only estimating six thousand for overtime. It might be more but if we say six for overtime that brings it to... he tapped at the list in the air and it resolved into a total in a larger font, thirty-four thousand with seventeen down and the actual balance on delivery. Will that be all right?

Dramond stopped for a moment when he realized he was paying nearing fifty thousand credits to have the Administrator’s pet project in his pocket. Well, a top-of-the-line Proctor cost nearly that much so it wasn’t completely outrageous. Do  it, he said, hungry to get his hands on the man now that he'd imagined it, "just use whatever overtime you need. I'll manage the costs. Now, how long will that really take?"

Well, if we run the Learning Labs non-stop, as you say, we should be able to bring it down to five days, six on the outside. There is a hard limit of twenty-four hours to set up the crèche and get the first cells incubated before we can add in any expediters.

One week would do nicely, Dramond decided. Good and while you’re feeding him all those Learning Labs, mix some cooking classes in with the usual chemical weapons and explosives training. I can have him double as my personal chef.

Really? The Second Assistant made a mous, as though the very idea of mixing the various skills might destroy the meaning of life, itself.

Food is a security threat. Poisoning is more common than you might think. Besides, Dramond thought it would amuse him no end to have Caine’s precious Heir serving him his meals. On his knees, maybe.

Well, if you really think that’s wise, Councillor Dramond, we’ll provide him with whatever training you like but I'm concerned about mixing the topics at this speed.

I don’t care what you feed him just fill him up. I don’t want to waste time having to bring him back here for more training later. Get everything jammed into his head that you can manage.

The Second Assistant cleared his throat and his expression, then asked, Will you want to be here to crack the can? We can give you notice when—

No! Don’t be ridiculous! Treat him like every other Proctor. He can wake up to one of your Class One techs.

Very good, then, all that leaves us with is the matter of payment.

I’ll put ten thousand into your account tonight to get things started and another ten tomorrow. I’ll return in a few days when I can find the time and I can check over the list of Learning Labs you’ve run by then. At that point, you can verbally tell me the balance due. I’ll pay it on delivery. Is that clear?

Yes, Councillor, that will work just fine for us.

Us. Dramond liked that us touch. The Second Assistant was pocketing every last credit himself. I’ll want that sample dish back when you’re finished scraping this man out of it. Be sure to have it sterilized and leave no trace of the man in the production lines either. I want this Proctor to be a unique and special delivery. Is that absolutely clear?

The man bowed slightly and said, Crystal clear, as always, Councillor Dramond. We always operate with the utmost discretion for our special customers. Ever the salesman, the Second Assistant went on, Shall we setup the usual Proctor’s Orientation and transfer him to the Academy after his awakening or would you like to arrange—

Just get the damned thing operable, tested and evaluated for brain damage. Once you confirm he doesn’t have any brain damage from the Learning Labs, I can manage to setup the training myself. I have some ideas in mind already. Besides, I just got some kind of advertising package from the Academy this morning with your latest specials.

The Second Assistant smiled and gave a courtly bow in his chair then said, Oh, yes! I highly recommend the new training. It’s really quite an improvement over last year's programs and that special on pricing will be good until the quarter ends with the next Council Session.

He finished entering the proper data into the forms and offered Dramond the signature pad for his palm print. Dramond confirmed the payment was going into the Second Assistant’s personal account and left feeling quite pleased with himself. He could hardly believe how excited he was getting at the possibilities. It was going to be fun to have the man filling in as Dramond’s personal chef, valet and number one body guard. He’d make the man humiliate himself and with Proctor training, he’d have to do it with a smile. With this man kneeling at his feet, Dramond could literally rub Caine’s nose in the dirt, or close enough, using the Proctor’s nose as proxy. Or he could make the man lick his boots. Oh, what an image! This was turning out to be the best day of Rene-Michel Dramond’s life!

Chapter 3: Found

This had to be the worst day of Jared Crenshaw’s life. He’d requested MedTech, not so much to work with actual people, but more because he loved science—and MedTech was all about the science. He didn’t even like people most of the time; they bored him. Although he’d met a few Privilege Class Citizens who could carry on an intelligent conversation for more than five minutes, he’d found that most people just never got enough education to be particularly interesting for more than thirty seconds.

Humans as a species, now, that was a fascinating subject, especially against the backdrop of this alien planet. We definitely didn’t belong here. Given the biological tools most of the native species had developed—defensive tools that put them far above humans on the food-chain here—we just didn’t stand a chance of survival. And yet here we were. Not being killed off or going extinct in a generation for any of the myriad of reasons life here was unsuitable for humans. We had adapted and overcome. Jared had already started a low-level study of how we’d managed that small miracle—in secret, mind you. It was a completely unauthorized study just for his personal amusement. What he really wanted to study, officially, was why the Original Members had chosen this planet to colonize in the first place.

Given the odds against human survival here, why hadn’t the Original Membership chosen a more hospitable environment? Was it a matter of proximity? Was this the closest thing to a suitable planet within range? And had they actually started from Earth or was that a myth, too? Had they already tried and failed to colonize another planet, making this the last-chance option? That was the popular myth among the Class One and Class Two laborers. History alleged the whole thing had been by design but Jared had to side with the lower classes. The whole scenario felt like a catastrophic mistake. He’d like to investigate it, officially, just to get to the truth of the matter.

Then, of course, there was the follow-on question: why hadn’t the Original Members sent a message back to Earth asking for help once they’d seen how hostile this world was? Couldn’t they reach Earth? Wasn’t there anyone back there to answer them? The public answer in the World Council Archives claimed that comm silence had been the informed choice. What kind of information could possibly have justified that choice? Was the colony hiding from Earth?

With everything here attacking the Original Members, from the flora and fauna to the planet itself, right down to parasites in the water, what could possibly be worse than being stranded here? There was nothing here to sustain human life. In fact, everything here could not have been more harmful to human life if it had been made that way by intelligent design. And wasn’t that a question Jared would like to investigate? How exactly had things on this world evolved this way? The planet itself did not seem to support even the native flora and fauna without a fight. Not counting the native people, the Phoenicians. They seemed to manage just fine though they weren’t a particularly friendly group of natives, as natives went. They tolerated human presence on their world. Barely.

Despite their begrudging planetary hosts, the humans had developed a water filtration system and successfully completed genetic modifications on both soy and corn variants to produce sustainable food supplies. All that stood in the way of human expansion encroaching on the native life after that was figuring out how to build sufficient shelters for the people. That hadn’t taken very long. Within a year of the colonists’ arrival, the first environmental shelter had been erected as a home base. Then another and another. It did take twenty-five years to get the Breeding Selections set up but then humans did what humans do once they have fruit; they multiplied. Exponentially. The human colony had grown so quickly in the first quarter-century, Jared had been certain he’d missed a record in the Archives when he’d first reviewed it.

The World Council had been established and almost immediately issued the Standard Accepted Lifestyles and Practices. The Standards were great, in theory, but Jared wasn’t trying to subsist at the bottom of the food chain. He was a Class Three, one class below the upper caste of the system. A Class One might not agree with his Class Three view of the Standards. He rationalized his acceptance of the Standards with the fact they prevented anarchy from setting in. That was where even his Class Three approval ended.

There was only one puzzle left. Why had people never tried to leave this planet again? We’d obviously had space flight technology. Had the Original Members lost all knowledge of how the ship operated during their journey here? Had the ship been damaged beyond repair? If so, why hadn’t they just built and launched a new ship instead of setting up a colony and government here on this godforsaken planet? He’d been studying that last question—the pursuit of space flight or the failure thereof—from inside this Psych rotation when the stupid order to drop everything had come down.

The entire Psychometrics Department had been conscripted into the search for some missing genetic material. No one had gone home in almost a week. More than half the interns here were wearing scrubs from MedTech Supply, which was bad enough. Worse, however, was that the other half were wearing the same clothes they’d had on when the building had locked down. They were holding out against the hope they'd be allowed to go home at any moment. The smell from those selected few made Jared wish they would!

Jared was one of only a handful who’d had the presence of mind to quickly redirect his Facilities services as soon as the order had been issued, before the lockdown had completed. He had clean clothes and personal items here, but some of these interns hadn’t even bathed all week. There were Facilities here for that sort of thing. They could borrow scrubs from MedTech Supply like everyone else. There was no need to become unsanitary heathens. Maybe they thought if they smelled bad enough, they’d be allowed to leave. Not likely. There was only one way this ended: the stolen property would be found.

Jared stood in the entrance to the Psychometrics Analysis Department, which was currently falling to pieces. It amused him no end to see the room full of professional, highly-trained Psych workers having a fit en masse. He’d gotten the same message in his inbox everyone else had seen. It hadn’t sent him into a panic. So some corrupt MedTech had gotten greedy and stolen some Privilege Class Citizen’s Heir. That sounded more like a problem for Security than Psych.

There was still no trace of where the Heir had been hidden and it had been nearly a week. Was panicking going to change that? No. Maybe Security should just get off their duffs and do some legwork instead of asking Psych to solve the problem for them. Proctors. They were only good at one thing: killing and dying. Okay, that was two things and when Proctors had no one to kill and weren’t being hunted, themselves, they were good at a third thing as a result of all that testosterone backing up in their systems.

As much as Jared enjoyed giving bored Proctors something to do, he did have to wonder why they couldn’t just track the stolen genetic profile through the building. Wasn’t the stolen Heir in the Breeding Selections? Didn’t every bioscanner have a record of the thing for access authorizations? Or had the stolen Heir been an illegal design? Something purchased by a high-ranking official off the books? That was totally possible—even likely. Maybe it was the same high-ranking official this morning’s alert had said would be visiting today. The report hadn’t named the official but had said he’d have new information—and new assignments for everyone. Hence, the panic in the room.

Jared wasn’t worried about anything but more boredom. With his luck, he’d be tapped to count sample cases on a production line or hand-check production numbers against a handwritten list of crèche setups. He found it tedious just thinking about it.

Not that any of this had stopped him from putting on his best fresh suit and preparing for an opportunity to get face time with Important People. He had a copy of his research grant proposal on a datapanel in his jacket pocket and was ready to pitch it to any suitably high-ranking person in charge today, even someone dealing in black market purchases of illegal Heirs. Maybe especially someone dealing in black market purchases. He could work with the black market if that was the only way to get funding. He patted at his breast pocket to reassure himself the grant proposal was still there. It was.

Illegal Heirs weren’t the only things disappearing around here. Yesterday’s person in charge had replaced the one from the day before. In fact, they’d gone through seven high-ranking but nameless persons-in-charge in just eight days. A new one every morning so this morning’s new arrival wasn’t such a surprise. He felt badly for the exiting personnel and their inevitable trip to the Unemployment Bin, but he was more concerned with not following them there himself. It was a juggling act this week. Stay low profile to keep from becoming collateral damage. Stay alert to a chance for face time that could move him up the ladder.

He started across the room, towards the crowd forming at the door to the department head’s office—the former department heads, all of them. The room seemed hungry for information so he hadn’t missed anything crucial yet—like today’s new assignments, promotions or demotions. He held himself at the back of the crowd.

Now what? He asked quietly of an intern hovering at the edge. This one wore scrubs and smelled of standard-issue bath soaps. Close enough to tolerable.

Didn’t you hear? The man in scrubs seemed shocked that Jared didn’t have the latest news so he proceeded to pour out the day’s update. "The stolen property came right out of the Chief’s Level Five Secure lab in the Centre! It wasn’t just of interest to him; the Chief of Genetics, you know, Dr. Cory Jansen, was working on it himself! Can you believe it? Jansen doing genetic work! I can’t even imagine what kind of Heir, the intern actually made air quotes around the word, he would have worked on. Do you think it could have been his own? Or maybe the Administrator’s? That’s what everyone else is saying because there’s no Designated Heir for the Administrator, you know? Oh, the man went on excited to have a captive audience for his rumor mill report, and I almost forgot, there’s another rumor saying it was a Class Three that took it. One of Jansen’s own techs but I don’t buy it. I know both of them—well, of them. They didn’t do it. They’ve both worked for Jansen for years." The young man was wild-eyed. Apparently, this week’s drama was the most exciting thing in his small life.

Jared asked, Don’t you think it’s possible for MedTechs to steal?

"Not Jansen’s techs!"

Why not? They’re just MedTechs like the rest of us.

"No, they’re not. That kind of assignment does not come to just MedTechs. They earned their way into the Chief’s office." The man acted like it was unthinkable one of them could be the thief.

Well, it wasn’t unthinkable to Jared but it certainly would be unpleasant to be associated with potential thieves. They’d been caught, after all. If they’d gotten away with it, now then Jared might like to meet them. Clever thieves were so rare these days.

Anything else from the rumor mill today? Jared asked, not really wanting there to be more. The sooner this wild goose chase was over, the sooner he could get back to real life.

Just— The man gasped and his eyes widened as the crowd murmured. Oh, look, there he is now!

Who? Jared stretched up on his toes to catch a glimpse of what had caused the stir. When he saw the man, his first sight stirred up something inside him strong enough to take his breath away. In fact, he felt his stomach doing little flip-flops when the he in question scanned the room and his gaze touched briefly on Jared’s. It was almost visceral the way those eyes touched him.

The man standing outside the former department head’s office wasn’t unusually tall and he had an average build, lean and fit but not particularly muscular. He was sheathed from neck to toe in bland Privilege Class black silks, simple in the cut, almost militaristic in the layering. He wore no jewelry or cosmetics that Jared could see, save the gold and silver crest over his breast, indicating his association with the Administrator’s office. The shiny metal glittered against his black silks, but the man stood so still that the material, itself, didn’t shimmer at all.

Clothes, regardless of what class color they were dyed, were all made from the same source material. It was the product from a local version of a silk worm and the fibre definitely shimmered when one moved it. When one merely breathed under it. If Jared didn’t know the man was alert from having seen his piercing gaze, he’d wonder if the man were even breathing from the lack of shimmer to the fabric.

The crowd around the doorway picked up on the energy—or lack thereof—by osmosis and hushed of their own accord. The mysterious man had dark hair, jet black and straight, pulled tightly against his head and gathered at the back of his neck to lie freely down his back. Jared couldn’t see how long it was but had the sense it was very long based on the way the man held his head and neck so straight. He had a wide, flat nose with a shallow bridge and almond-shaped eyes with a slight epicanthic fold suggesting a strong family line tracing back to the Asians on Earth. The high cheekbones and square jawline suggested quite another family line lay behind that face.

It was the color of those eyes, however, that completely turned it all upsidedown. An icy light blue, his eyes shone and flashed as though lit from behind. Like a Phoenician’s, Jared suddenly realized. The man’s features were vaguely Phoenician-like. Could he be a hybrid? Was cross-breeding with them even possible? The eyes on this man just screamed it was. Blue eyes, generally, were fairly rare. Light blue eyes like these were possibly unique. Jared certainly hadn’t ever seen