her full Synth
under Terran Confederacy law. Celstar didn’t have a DNA test for immigrants,
though no doubt they would implement one once they had more population to do
such work. She was near twenty percent Synth. It showed, of course, but in her
legs. Shiny, gilt Synth-skin legs. Legs for dancing the Cancan in Saloons and
Theaters. Celstar had a decency clause in their constitution. No Burlesque
Houses here, or brothels. Ladies’ legs were never seen; they wore long skirts,
pantaloons and stockings. And Polly had managed marital relations wearing
stocking and garters and a darkened room. Manipulating a drunk husband was
simple, another man might be much harder.
No more beddings for her. Not from her
sorry excuse for a husband and definitely not with a local Shimmer. She’d be a
proper widow lady.
~**~
Fallon trotted back to the gravesite with
a casket shell, and quickly took care of the business of burying Mr. Avila, using
a digger instead of a shovel. No one would miss Hoggart, more often a drunken
problem to be dealt with than a neighbor to work with.
But Hoggart had married well. Odd, that.
Of course, perhaps the woman Polly had considered the fine parcel of land and
decided it gave the troublesome man enough shine to interest her.
Pretty woman. Delicate but round in hip
and chest. Big dark eyes with curling lashes, a dimple that showed even with a
sad, partial smile. Very attractive. Something about her made him want to see
more of her.
His ants wanted him to remarry, saying he
was too young to stay single, but the girls paraded in front of him were too
young, just a few years older than his two sons. He still missed Maureen, gone
now five years, and it was hard to imagine someone in her place. But he did
miss a woman’s company, especially in his bed. A widow lady—Not Mrs. Avila, of
course, she was human—but an older woman was so much more appealing than a
girl. He would think on that.
~**~
The next morning at sunrise two teen boys
arrived in her yard. “Uncle Fallon said you would need help since Mr. Avila
passed. He sent us. I’m Evon and this is Charl.” They were tall boys, thin but
athletic looking. Both had dark hair and light eyes like their uncle.
“Very good. I appreciate your neighborly
ways. If you’d like to put your satchels here on the porch, I’ll show you
where things are. Come have a bite to eat, we are still at the first meal. We
have biscuits and jam.”
They followed her into the kitchen where
her Synths sat at table, their honey gold hair neatly braided, wearing flower
print dresses and blue pinafores like little human girls wore. They were tiny
with delicate builds and Polly had often wondered what possessed her husband to
purchase such children, who seemed to have so little ability to be farm
workers. Now she realized he probably intended them for prostitution.
“Come have a biscuit. We will have a hot
meal at noon, and there is ginger beer in the cool room. You may have as much
as you want. Our water is good, too. Won’t get you sick.” They joined her at
the table. “Ivy and Fern are the girl’s names. They are six but don’t talk.”
“Yes ma'am.” The boys sat at the table
and shared the biscuits and jam. After the meal she set the girls to the dishes
and took the boys out to her grain fields.
“You treat your Synths like children.” Evon,
the taller boy spoke. “Dress them like little girls, feed them at the table.”
She shrugged. “They look like children,
act like children. It is not in me to treat them as stock animals. Is that
different than your ways?”
“Shimmers don’t have Synths, ma’am. We
were once slaves ourselves.”
“Well, not us, but our people.” Charl
clarified.
“I understand.” Synths and Shimmers were
both made during the early days of the Confederacy, when a few planets decided
to suspend laws concerning DNA experimentation with human cells. The Shimmer
Wars of the last century had ended the
under Terran Confederacy law. Celstar didn’t have a DNA test for immigrants,
though no doubt they would implement one once they had more population to do
such work. She was near twenty percent Synth. It showed, of course, but in her
legs. Shiny, gilt Synth-skin legs. Legs for dancing the Cancan in Saloons and
Theaters. Celstar had a decency clause in their constitution. No Burlesque
Houses here, or brothels. Ladies’ legs were never seen; they wore long skirts,
pantaloons and stockings. And Polly had managed marital relations wearing
stocking and garters and a darkened room. Manipulating a drunk husband was
simple, another man might be much harder.
No more beddings for her. Not from her
sorry excuse for a husband and definitely not with a local Shimmer. She’d be a
proper widow lady.
~**~
Fallon trotted back to the gravesite with
a casket shell, and quickly took care of the business of burying Mr. Avila, using
a digger instead of a shovel. No one would miss Hoggart, more often a drunken
problem to be dealt with than a neighbor to work with.
But Hoggart had married well. Odd, that.
Of course, perhaps the woman Polly had considered the fine parcel of land and
decided it gave the troublesome man enough shine to interest her.
Pretty woman. Delicate but round in hip
and chest. Big dark eyes with curling lashes, a dimple that showed even with a
sad, partial smile. Very attractive. Something about her made him want to see
more of her.
His ants wanted him to remarry, saying he
was too young to stay single, but the girls paraded in front of him were too
young, just a few years older than his two sons. He still missed Maureen, gone
now five years, and it was hard to imagine someone in her place. But he did
miss a woman’s company, especially in his bed. A widow lady—Not Mrs. Avila, of
course, she was human—but an older woman was so much more appealing than a
girl. He would think on that.
~**~
The next morning at sunrise two teen boys
arrived in her yard. “Uncle Fallon said you would need help since Mr. Avila
passed. He sent us. I’m Evon and this is Charl.” They were tall boys, thin but
athletic looking. Both had dark hair and light eyes like their uncle.
“Very good. I appreciate your neighborly
ways. If you’d like to put your satchels here on the porch, I’ll show you
where things are. Come have a bite to eat, we are still at the first meal. We
have biscuits and jam.”
They followed her into the kitchen where
her Synths sat at table, their honey gold hair neatly braided, wearing flower
print dresses and blue pinafores like little human girls wore. They were tiny
with delicate builds and Polly had often wondered what possessed her husband to
purchase such children, who seemed to have so little ability to be farm
workers. Now she realized he probably intended them for prostitution.
“Come have a biscuit. We will have a hot
meal at noon, and there is ginger beer in the cool room. You may have as much
as you want. Our water is good, too. Won’t get you sick.” They joined her at
the table. “Ivy and Fern are the girl’s names. They are six but don’t talk.”
“Yes ma'am.” The boys sat at the table
and shared the biscuits and jam. After the meal she set the girls to the dishes
and took the boys out to her grain fields.
“You treat your Synths like children.” Evon,
the taller boy spoke. “Dress them like little girls, feed them at the table.”
She shrugged. “They look like children,
act like children. It is not in me to treat them as stock animals. Is that
different than your ways?”
“Shimmers don’t have Synths, ma’am. We
were once slaves ourselves.”
“Well, not us, but our people.” Charl
clarified.
“I understand.” Synths and Shimmers were
both made during the early days of the Confederacy, when a few planets decided
to suspend laws concerning DNA experimentation with human cells. The Shimmer
Wars of the last century had ended the
Similar Books
