SUGAR AND SPICE AND ALL THINGS NICE
Part 7 of 8
Four days later, an Investor tour arrived at the State Labor Facility, ground-cars taking up grassy swards near the main gate, and private planes at rest on the aerodrome south of Helioshad. Investor tours generally happened on the first, the day the oldest lyrik graduated and the day the newest lyrik devesseled.
To the girls, the investors appeared tall and glorious, shining with gems. The choirs trooped out and sang, athletic demonstrations filled the lawn in front of Administration, and the First Girls of each ten-year lyrik arranged bouquets for the wives and daughters.
Briseis was still in the infirmary, useless to anyone yet, being entirely unconscious, so Hypatia directed the girls of lyrik nineteen in handing out ribbon-tied blooms.
Leading the Investors along the ten-years, Miss Scyros purred pleasure at the elegant presentations. The Investors’ wives cooed, and the Investors were smug, patting the girls on the head. One Investor, a thin man with many rings on his fingers, studied Andromache closely, chucked her under the chin, and idly asked her the cube root of five hundred and twelve.
“You’re expecting someone, Mist’ Ŝahin,” Director Scyros said to him at the garden party. “Can I help you?”
“Oh, a friend of mine works here. A Miss Zugasti.”
“Miss Zugasti is no longer on staff,” she said coldly. “Neither is Miss Yilmaz. You’ll deal with me only.”
He was taken aback, but only for a moment. “I see. And…?”
“I require more. They did not have a sufficiency of money left from your payments to them, and frankly, Mist’ Ŝahin, your enterprise is criminal and like labor theft.”
Ŝahin frowned. “The Andromache has already been expensive.”
“I don’t find that you’re in a position to argue,” she said coolly. “At the moment, I have the girl and the evidence of wrongdoing on my staff. If you wish the girl, and do not wish to speak with my security and the militia, we must come to an agreement.”
He flushed, then laughed, harsh. “Oh?”
“Miss Zugasti told me, before she departed, that a final fee’s involved. Hmm? Perhaps we will not see that increase too much? Besides, I’m sure she’ll abundantly pay for herself.”
He looked wry but gave her a solemn bow. “We’ll speak later.”
After the garden party, the exciting part came: devesseling. The Investors took the grand arched entrance, toured the Museum of Anatomy’s morbidly colorful exhibits, and ended in Chamber Seven, where technicians and doctors prepared to devessel the new lyrik. Excitement was high, fans waved over noses. The ten-years lined up, all two hundred and twenty, as the last cohort was now eleven and their classroom was cleaned and emptied, prepared for the neonates.
Now the tanks opened with their peculiar organic odor. The fluid drained away, the doctors cut and sealed the umbilicals with quick squicks, and the technicians, checking the new girls, wrapped them in blankets for the wetnurses. The neonates wailed raspily.
Andromache’s eyes burned green, tiny hands in fists as the other Andromache devesseled, crying as the technician cleared fluid from her. Scyros watched the ten-year watching the neonate. A tickle of doubt came to the Director’s mind. Why? Why is she concerned? Never mind. Twenty devesseled neonates! Twenty lyrik girls leaving for new lives! A good day, profitable, with happy Investors, and a bit of money for herself! “Now, if only that miserable Briseis recovers,” she muttered, “then everything will be forgotten, and we can get on with business.”
The Investors scattered across the quadrangles, drinks in hand, feathered fans aflutter, lounging in artistic grottoes. Later a Center van drove the graduated girls to the labor brokers in Helioshad, flowers in their hair and draped across their shoulders. The Investor dinner went flawlessly, and as the darkness covered the world, they began leaving.
Andromache scrubbed dinner things in the lyrik after sundown as Pleione dried and stacked.
“Is sister Briseis getting better?” Pleione asked.
“I do not know,” Andromache said, indifferent,
She dried her red hands, the gray dishwater draining. Teacher, wan and distracted, kept poor order and left early. The assistants chivvied their charges into their night tunics, and they lay on the floor, twenty little girls in two straight lines. Save for Briseis, monitored by the night nurse. Save for Andromache.
A silver-haired ghost slipped to lyrik twenty-seven. A phantom penetrated the door. A pale face and green eyes leaned over the bassinet.
“Sister, sister,” Andromache whispered. “Oh, sister.”
The other Andromache was pink-faced, a whorl of pale hair on her head. She opened blue eyes with a hint of green to come in them.
Andromache gathered up Andromache, trying to hush quickly bubbling unhappiness and darting into the night. The sleepy wetnurse dragged herself from her mat, confronted with an empty bassinet and the unfamiliar shock of fear.