thermostat easily enough; but the feeling of impending disaster had now become almost overwhelming. During the shuttle trip and the drive from Anticosti, he had deliberately refrained from any attempt to farsense Teresa or try to make mental contact with her. The premonition had seemed to warn him that this would be dangerous, that she would inadvertently give away his presence on Earth and somehow preclude his helping her. But now, standing in the dusty shade of a gigantic mutant elm with the cooling engine of the Beemer ticking gently beside him, the boy reached out with the most heavily shielded farsensory probe he could manage and entered the old white colonial-style house at 15 East South Street.
Neither Herta Schmidt, the operant nanny, nor Jacqui Delarue, the nonoperant housekeeper, was anywhere in the place. His mother, Teresa Kaulana Kendall, was in her music studio on the second floor, sitting at a keyboard in front of an open window, playing a soft guitarlike improvisation. As Marc’s ultrasense lingered on her face, which was lightly sheened with perspiration, she brushed a damp lock of dark hair from her eyes with a sharp gesture at odds with her tranquil aspect.
Her mind was enveloped in a grandmasterclass screenthat no Remillard—not even her husband or her eldest son—had ever been able to breach.
Across the room, sitting stiffly on a ladder-back chair between the computer desk and a bookcase stuffed with old-fashioned printed musical scores, was Lucille Cartier—Marc’s redoubtable grandmother and Teresa’s mother-in-law. Lucille’s rejuvenated beauty was unsullied by sweat, and her dark brown hair, cut in bangs and a classic Chanel bob, was perfectly groomed.
Lucille said, “Now that we’re certain that the prognosis for successful prenatal genetic engineering is negative, you must agree that only one course of action is possible.”
Teresa said nothing. The music she played was technically brilliant but completely lacking in depth or nuance.
Lucille was reining in her famous temper admirably, projecting regret, sympathy, and feminine solidarity at the same time that her coercion was working overtime. “Teresa, dear, there is no other way the family can protect you from the legal consequences of your irresponsible behavior. And the child is—”
“Doomed anyhow,” Teresa finished, smiling abstractedly.
“Severin himself performed the genetic assay, confirming the presence of at least three intractable lethal traits in the fetal DNA. And I needn’t remind you”—Lucille’s voice hardened—“that doing those tests makes Sevvy just as much of an accessory to your crime as I am. But he was willing to put himself in jeopardy just to prove to you that the situation is irremediable.”
“And I thank you both for trying. And for not reporting me.”
“We never considered reporting you to the Magistratum!”
The smallest movement uplifted Teresa’s lips. “Of course not. The Remillard family honor—and the honor of the first human Magnate-Designate—would never recover from the scandal.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.” Lucille’s words were still objective, composed. But her mental substratum, clearly perceptible to Marc’s spying ultrasense, smoldered with outrage. “Any more than you really knew what you were doing when you deliberately flouted the Reproductive Statutes.”
“Oh, I knew … but I never intended to harm Paul or the rest of the family. I—I only knew that this time the risk was worth taking.”
“How you ever expected to get away with it—”
“I had a plan. Once my condition became obvious, I’d slip away to my family’s old beach house on Kauai, where only native Hawaiian people and a handful of haoles live now. It would have been easy to make some excuse to Paul.” Teresa uttered a small laugh. “He certainly would never miss me, what with the hullabaloo over the upcoming ending of the Simbiari Proctorship and the formal
Neither Herta Schmidt, the operant nanny, nor Jacqui Delarue, the nonoperant housekeeper, was anywhere in the place. His mother, Teresa Kaulana Kendall, was in her music studio on the second floor, sitting at a keyboard in front of an open window, playing a soft guitarlike improvisation. As Marc’s ultrasense lingered on her face, which was lightly sheened with perspiration, she brushed a damp lock of dark hair from her eyes with a sharp gesture at odds with her tranquil aspect.
Her mind was enveloped in a grandmasterclass screenthat no Remillard—not even her husband or her eldest son—had ever been able to breach.
Across the room, sitting stiffly on a ladder-back chair between the computer desk and a bookcase stuffed with old-fashioned printed musical scores, was Lucille Cartier—Marc’s redoubtable grandmother and Teresa’s mother-in-law. Lucille’s rejuvenated beauty was unsullied by sweat, and her dark brown hair, cut in bangs and a classic Chanel bob, was perfectly groomed.
Lucille said, “Now that we’re certain that the prognosis for successful prenatal genetic engineering is negative, you must agree that only one course of action is possible.”
Teresa said nothing. The music she played was technically brilliant but completely lacking in depth or nuance.
Lucille was reining in her famous temper admirably, projecting regret, sympathy, and feminine solidarity at the same time that her coercion was working overtime. “Teresa, dear, there is no other way the family can protect you from the legal consequences of your irresponsible behavior. And the child is—”
“Doomed anyhow,” Teresa finished, smiling abstractedly.
“Severin himself performed the genetic assay, confirming the presence of at least three intractable lethal traits in the fetal DNA. And I needn’t remind you”—Lucille’s voice hardened—“that doing those tests makes Sevvy just as much of an accessory to your crime as I am. But he was willing to put himself in jeopardy just to prove to you that the situation is irremediable.”
“And I thank you both for trying. And for not reporting me.”
“We never considered reporting you to the Magistratum!”
The smallest movement uplifted Teresa’s lips. “Of course not. The Remillard family honor—and the honor of the first human Magnate-Designate—would never recover from the scandal.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.” Lucille’s words were still objective, composed. But her mental substratum, clearly perceptible to Marc’s spying ultrasense, smoldered with outrage. “Any more than you really knew what you were doing when you deliberately flouted the Reproductive Statutes.”
“Oh, I knew … but I never intended to harm Paul or the rest of the family. I—I only knew that this time the risk was worth taking.”
“How you ever expected to get away with it—”
“I had a plan. Once my condition became obvious, I’d slip away to my family’s old beach house on Kauai, where only native Hawaiian people and a handful of haoles live now. It would have been easy to make some excuse to Paul.” Teresa uttered a small laugh. “He certainly would never miss me, what with the hullabaloo over the upcoming ending of the Simbiari Proctorship and the formal
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