Gestation by John Gold (love books to read .txt) 📗

say anything, but just the fact that I broke into a closed sector is already a crime. When the inspector stops spitting and trying to scare me, I look him evenly in the eye and say nothing. What do his threats mean to me?

Vaalsie shows up. After a quick conversation with the inspector, he turns to me.

“Half a year with no trips to the city. You’ll stay right here in the orphanage, and any attempt to leave will land you without access to the network until your time’s up.” The supervisor is dry, paying no attention to my indifference.

“…”

“Are you satisfied with the punishment?” Vaalsie asks the inspector.

“Completely. It’ll be a lesson to him.”

“Head into the orphanage,” the supervisor says, turning back to me.

Back in the building, I lie down in my capsule and fall asleep. Sleep is the best medicine.

∞ ∞ ∞

Eliza was reading Anji’s dossier. It turned out that the boy had been fighting off attacks from his peers on a continual basis. He never played, and he ignored the interest other children took in their games. Judging by the recordings, there were points when Anji talked superbly, more on the level of a sixteen-to eighteen-year-old than a twelve-year-old. The other kids were drawn to him. He didn’t push for leadership, but everybody else was only too ready to listen. Complex topics were broken down in a way the other kids could explain, he often used examples, and, in a word, he didn’t behave very childlike. For some reason, after switching groups, he stopped talking. That day, Eliza found out that he’d been heading over to the space port sector for a while. He hadn’t said anything, sticking to habit, and the supervisor didn’t ask him any questions. Eliza figured she needed to dig deeper into the material she’d collected before she could understand the taciturn child. That was the only way she could put together a plan for his social adaptation, and she ignored her cup of coffee as she read.

∞ ∞ ∞

The morning started with a quick fight. Just as I climbed out of my cocoon, the trio from yesterday dashed over and laid into me until the siren went off. Then, it was another conversation with the supervisor. I have another two hours of studies, they have four each. How’s that fair, old man?

As everyone was leaving, I heard yet another round of threats and flashed yet another smile. My whole body hurt, but it was the pain of losing that cut deepest.

The situation demanded a response. After finding the inseparable trio, I spent the next hour following them around and watching them as they demanded payment. On the way, I picked up a polymer rock in the corridor where some work was going on. I wait now for one of the tax collectors to walk out of the bathroom before stepping in behind him.

“Pain for pain.”

I hit him in the back of the head. Then, I kick away at him methodically and deliberately until the siren sounds. That’s a good month of hurt right there.

The supervisor’s in fine form today—you don’t hear that much cursing down at the docks. Still, I’m feeling much better after getting even.

“Why did you hit him in the head? He showed up in the infirmary covered in blood, and he’s going to spend the next month limping. We don’t have full-body regeneration equipment here.”

I say nothing, figuring I’m better off not telling him that was what I was going for.

“Another four hours of studies a day. All next month. Okay, get out of here.”

It’s been a hundred years since there was really such a thing as studies. Now, they just give us access to educational materials and tell us when the exam will be. The better your performance, the more privileges they give you at the orphanage—excursions, sweets, social events, permission to play certain games, and materials with limited access. It all depends on how many points you can score with your studies. The whole thing is set up for a calendar year, and Galboa always says that you have to find the upside and leverage it to get the most you can. That’s what I do.

There’s a whole month of fourteen-hour study days ahead of me. You get tired when there’s that much on your plate, though the constant fighting and additional study time made reading while I have time off a habit. Really, it was Galboa who turned me on to reading. Books don’t teach me; they help me sort through what I already know. On the other hand, if you meet the requirements right away, you’re free—that’s the rule. All Vaalsie can do is give me some game limitations using the external supervisor interface for my cocoon.

I crawl into the capsule and activate the Project Chrysalis invitation. A timer starts ticking away two hours.

∞ ∞ ∞

Welcome to Project Chrysalis.

New user registration

Select a race

I’m not sure—your choice of race determines what kind of parents you’ll have. Orcs are strong, dwarves already have a beard at twelve, elves look like girls, trolls are ugly, humans don’t have any talents.

“Just like me. Okay, let’s go with human. Oh…that’s the only available option.”

Enter a username

I don’t have any nicknames, just what they call me down at the docks—small fry. They say you have to earn your name.

It feels good to think back to my time there, though it hurts to think about Galboa.

Sagie. That’s the youngest genie. The dockers are called genies sometimes because they pop out and fulfill the wishes of their clients.

Next, there’s a page detailing natural predispositions to weapons or magic that give you additional damage bonuses. The bonus, as well as your chances of getting it, are displayed in percentages. You can even pay to boost your chances of getting the character you want.

A whole page of paid services—getting born into a family of mages or becoming the heir to a long line of swordsmen; inheritable skills, mutations, family artifacts… The only problem is that the lowest prices start