Subtle Redundancy

"The pleasure was all mine." He was staring down in wonder as his semen seeped from her slit, and she wiped it absently onto her finger. "I hope... I mean, I doubt I impregnated you..."

"Stop it," she laughed quickly. "It's not a problem." The metering implants were some of the most tightly controlled items in the colony, and only she, Dr Bexler, and the indents had them installed. She calmed herself; she knew the smirk was back. "Get me a towel. I've got to get back." The rain was beating on the windows behind him, and already she was thinking about what she'd find on Morrisen's leg by now.

Her boots chopped quickly across the tiles once she swept the curtain aside, and she thought about keeping her head down and avoiding Marianne's gaze. Instead, something in her made her pause, straight and tall, and give the other woman a nodded smile. "Have a good afternoon, Marianne!" she called across the room, and Fwentes had no choice but to smile back.

"Rielle," she managed, and then the shawl was going back over her disheveled hair and the doorway beckoned.

* * *

Almost six years, and at last the colony was able to produce a decent lunch.

That was the headline the following day, when for the first time Rielle sat down to a well-balanced, fully indigenous meal that actually tasted good. "This is a big moment," Leonor insisted, steering her food over her distended belly. The baby had just begun to kick that morning. She'd come along as a Domestic too, two years older than Rielle, and now she had her own little holding, with a garden. Rielle hadn't chosen hers yet, though there was an entire planet for them all to spread out in. "It doesn't taste like shit."

"Good point." Mikhail, down the table, was tapping at his tabslate. "Figuring out the sauce was a big breakthrough." Rielle glanced at Leonor, then over at Chonn; the baby Leonor was hauling around belonged to Mikhail, and so far only the two surgeons knew. But Mikka and Leonor had never gotten along at all, and speculating about how they'd hooked up occupied a large part of Dr Bexler's daily routine. Still. It didn't really matter, Rielle knew; the baby was viable.

The youngest Domestic was Janicka, still with two years to go before she turned eighteen, and now she and Sergey were the only ones left to deal with the workload they'd all shared once. And the oldest babies were just five, barely old enough to help in the Plant. Janicka scuttled across the Hall now, down from the commandant's table, her eyes wide like the field elk they'd been finding in the woods lately, and crept up to their table.

"Hey, Rielle." The girl was thin, like everyone at the colony, but with a subtle heaviness to her bones as puberty stretched them. "I've got a message."

Rielle sent her eyes roving along the faces at the table, her new status coming easily to her as she leaned back and smiled in the Domestic's face. Last week they'd shared the same common room; now, her eighteen years lay heavy between them. "Call me Ms Fourbee, Janicka," she chided, loud enough so that people could hear her do it. "You know better."

"Sure, Ms Fourbee." The girl said it like she was spitting out khat juice. "Uh, sorry. I've got a message," she repeated. "Commandant needs to see you after lunch."

"Nope." Rielle shook her head. "Tell him I'll be there at four. I've got a crèche inspection after lunch. Rina's baby needs a checkup." Janicka blinked, unable to conceive of a world in which her old fellow Domestic could talk so confidently about blowing off a summons from the Commandant. Rielle raised her voice, just slightly. "I'll be along as soon as my duties allow. Take the message please, Janicka."

The girl slipped away, and Rielle felt the eyes on her, weighing, judging. She turned to Dr Bexler, and the old Domestic Rielle would have said something normal, like Why would the Commandant want to see me, Doctor? Instead, she just stared at Bexler until the older woman asked the question. "What's up?" she asked, the casualness forced. "Any idea?"

Rielle already had the answer ready, swift and deadly. "He probably wants to fuck me," she shrugged, and although the laughter took its time starting, it rolled easily over the table, and Rielle knew she'd made the right call.

So, with her hands still stinking of disinfectant after her examination of Angerina's little boy, Rielle strode along the path toward the commandant's office in the side of the Hall. They were making their own concrete at last, and this path had been the first to be capped; it made a welcome change from the incessant red mud. She hadn't been there in months, since she'd come to run a message about the commandant's baby, and she hadn't spoken with Elon himself since the week before, when he'd published her planetary citizenship papers after the big group dinner.

He'd hugged her, she remembered, a bit too tightly.

Rielle lifted her sharp-fingered hand and slapped the door summons. A chime sounded faintly from inside, followed by Elon's deep voice. "Come on in!"

His office was, at least officially, the oldest surviving human structure on the planet, the first building they'd put up on arrival, and Elon had vowed not to move out of it until the Permanent Commandant arrived. Which was unfortunate, given that the east wall was already crumbling. She stuck her head in the doorway. "You wanted me?"

"Hi, Rielle." He was leaning back in the chair he'd brought from Earth with his feet up on the desk, a big stone slab the terraformers had left behind. "Have a seat."

He wasn't beaming quite as much as he normally did.

"Thanks." She perched straight-backed on his bench, the way they'd taught her to sit when she was a Domestic; she did it now out of habit, and because she simply thought it was the right way to sit. Knees together, hands on thighs, gown smoothed. Head just so. She waited calmly, looking into his eyes with her usual stillness.

He laced his hands behind his head, still not smiling, and chose to dive right in; this was not the normal Elon Weathers method. He usually tried to be a cajoler, even with the indents and Domestics. "So I haven't gotten a chance to talk to you since the ceremony," he began, "and although I usually just leave it to the other citizens to sort of bring along the new ones, there are times I feel the need to... well, there's something I'd like to make clear to you, Rielle."

She waited. She knew what this was about now, and decided not to wait. "I'm not a breeder, Elon." He snapped sharply forward, his eyes wide. He wasn't ready for her to talk yet, and she watched his eyes dart sideways as he searched for something to say. But she'd already found something. "As a citizen," she plowed on, emphasizing the word, "I can make my own choices now. And as a medical practitioner, I'm not obligated to produce children."

Elon lifted his feet deliberately off the desk, the chair squeaking. "You're not," he agreed. "But what does that have to do with anything?" He was going to make her explain, and Rielle saw no reason not to. Bexler had chosen her at thirteen for two reasons: she had deft hands and she made quick decisions, which Elon was learning now.

"I'm sure you've called me here because I fucked Niall Bar Shaughnessy last week." She held herself straight and proud, still as cool and direct as she'd been taught. "I was concerned, as I'm sure you are, that we engaged in that activity in a food-prep area, and I myself supervised when Bar Shaughnessy disinfected it afterward." This was no lie; Rielle took food sanitation seriously. "Dr Bexler and I are fully prepared for any resulting medical complaints. Elon." She smiled, predicting he'd be flustered.

He was.

He sighed, his fingers busy with some paperclips in one of the little clay bowls the Domestics had made when they'd all arrived. The silence stretched several seconds longer than it should have. "Okay," he said at last. "We'll just go ahead and get right to it. My main concern, Rielle, day in and day out, is morale. I've got total power over every member of this colony. Unquestioned life-and-death power over every non-citizen on this planet. And I can banish anyone, even citizens. That's immense power, Rielle, and I'd prefer not to have to exercise any of it." He blinked. "Comprehend?"

Rielle held her head still. He wasn't threatening her with banishment; he was building to something. The paperclips stirred in their bowl.

"So I'm happier if the members of this colony are happy. I don't need morale problems of the kind that happen when citizens indiscriminately fuck staybacks." She paused, then nodded; she'd been on the verge of correcting him gently on his choice of indiscriminately, but she had to admit he was right.

"In future, Elon," she said quietly, "I'll discriminate."

"Not the point." The commandant was warming to his theme. "Here's the issue, Rielle, and I know you know this. Citizens in the pioneer wave are selected so that when the permanents show up, there'll be indigenous breeding stock for them. That stock needs to have biodiversity. So everyone fucks everyone else, we all have a lot of babies, and in theory the colony gets off to a strong foothold."

"You're right, Elon." Rielle moved her hair behind her ear. "I know this. I was raised by you people."

"But I'm not sure you see how that relates to your choice of fuck-partners," he snapped. Elon didn't like being shown up, and his patience had evaporated. "You and Chonn get to avoid having babies. So you get more freedom, less pressure, in your choices."

Rielle nodded, the conclusion snapping into place. It was like diagnosing a pulmonary disorder; you listened, paid attention, and the answer came. "Marianne Fwentes is pissed because she can't fuck Niall Bar Shaughnessy." She nodded seriously as Elon's mouth dropped slowly open. "She came and whined about it. You initially chalked it up to post-partum hormonal imbalances. Then you thought about it again, and here I am getting blamed for her jealousy." She shrugged. "Elon, she won't ever see or hear me getting laid. I promise. Anything else?"

Elon gaped across at her, and she knew in that moment that he'd never forgive her for making him feel like an idiot. Her brain worked fast; she didn't much care for his forgiveness, but she had fifteen more years left before he'd be leaving. "I'm sorry, Elon. She tipped her head downward. "I beg your pardon."

He was nodding slowly. "I can see why Chonn likes you so much," he muttered. He'd stopped molesting the paperclips. "She picked a good apprentice. Can you do me a favor, Rielle?"

"Perhaps, Elon."

"Can you try to avoid showing the rest of the colony how smart you are?" He leaned back again, resigned. "People aren't going to like you for any number of reasons. But you'll be a surgeon soon, and they'll need to trust you. That's your problem, but it's going to become my problem, I can tell."

She wasn't able to stop herself from tutting, which annoyed her. "Elon. You're wrong. People like me."

"Past tense, Rielle. They liked you when you were a quiet little Domestic helping out with hernias and broken toes. Now?" He smiled his lopsided smile. "You've got the same rights, the same status as they do. So you're a competitor now." He paused and let it sink in. "There's a difference, though. You're a novelty, and you can afford to be less careful. And you're beautiful."

"Thanks," she replied with a dry wink. "I didn't know you cared."

"See?" He spread his hands helplessly. "There'll be jealousy and bad blood because of you. Do me a favor, at least for a couple of years, and try to be more quiet." He sighed. "You were old enough to remember the trouble when Scott turned eighteen, right?"

She nodded. It had been three years ago, or a little more. Scott Fifteenay had been the first of the Domestics to come of age, and he'd cut a swath through the Wad's women from the night he'd gotten his papers. It had been the first serious conflict in the two-year-old colony, an ugly time before he'd settled himself down. Now April 78-F was pregnant with his son, and there were rumors of a bastard with one of the staybacks. "Boys will be boys," she said softly.

"Except when they're girls." Elon was feeling more comfortable now, more sure of where he stood with her. "Watch yourself. Please. For my sake."

"Cross my heart and hope to die," Rielle nodded. "And if I mess up, you can fuck me in the ass."

He blinked. There was a long, heavy pause before Elon arched an eyebrow. "You serious?"

Rielle smiled placidly. "I won't mess up."

"It's just that you should be careful what you say. Some of us are... well, it's been awhile. Since we've had someone new. That goes for citizens as well as the others." He chuckled a little nervously. "I mean, that's the joke, right? The reason men volunteer for pioneer trips?" She kept her smile frozen on her face, giving him nothing. "You come on trips like this so that you can cum on trips like this? Never heard that one?"

She perched complacently. The interview was clearly done; he just needed to come to the same conclusion. She wondered whether she ought to feel smug, knowing he'd be hard underneath the desk. "I'll go now, Elon. Thank you for your guidance and support."

He stirred absently. "What's that? Oh." He sighed. "Yes. Thank you, Rielle. Hopefully this won't be necessary again."

* * *

She skipped over a puddle as she left Elon's office, scanning the Wad to see who else might be floating around so early in the evening. It surprised and pleased her to see Aron 471-G. "Hey!" she called. "Long time, stranger!" She'd reconstructed his MCL the year before, one of the first times Bexler had allowed her to work alone on a major joint. "How's the knee?"

"Fine, thanks." She took in the toothy grin as she came up to him and offered her hand, acutely aware that Elon's office window was right behind her. "I haven't seen you since you got legal, Rielle. Congratulations!"

"Thank you," she winked, turning her head to accept a rough kiss on the cheek. It was one of Aron's habits, the beard tickling her. "But this close to Elon's office, you'd better call me Ms Fourbee. Or he'll banish you."

Aron laughed, that deep laugh that everyone found infectious on the rare occasions he came into the community. She backed away from him, looking up at warm brown eyes in that unusual whiskered face. "Banish me." He shook his head. "I'm pre-banished. I built a house and everything!" His face lit up. "I'm here to register the location with the commandant, maybe convince him to make me a citizen." He cocked his head. "That way, I can fuck all the women I want."

"But if you already built a home out on the Fringe, why would you ever need to come back and see us in the Wad?" she pouted.

"You? You, I'd come back and see," Aron replied. He licked his lips.

"My eyes are up here." Rielle laughed gaily, a rare thing for her. There was no explaining the old clone's appeal. She touched his arm. "You know," she winked, "if you do convince him, Dr Bexler and I will need to do a genetic motility analysis as part of the process. You'd show up and masturbate for us."

"Why wait?" He clawed at his groin. "I could do that right now."

On impulse, knowing she was in full view of the commandant's window, Rielle went up on tiptoes on the fresh concrete to give him a kiss on his lips. She'd never done anything even remotely like that before, but she hadn't wanted to either; everything was different now. She held the kiss far longer than she needed to, letting her pussy rest lightly on the back of his hand, not really knowing quite what she was doing; when she at last backed off, she was grinning. "Hold it for me," she murmured. "I'll come visit your house and see the lovely native architecture."

"House calls!" Aron laughed. "Thanks. I'll let you know." He looked up and down her body as though she were a meal. "Definitely, I'll let you know. I'd best get in out of the rain." He nodded, turning toward the door, and when Rielle glanced past him she caught Elon watching through the window. She shrugged, making sure he saw, and melted into the rain.

* * *

A few days later saw Rielle kneeling with Mikhail's balls in her palm. She palpated gently. "Definitely an irregularity here," she mused. Bexler leaned in close with the scanner.

"Isolate the right testicle," she ordered, all business. "The vas deferens is in the way. I can't get a good image."

Rielle frowned, her fingers sensitive as they probed, digging gently, finding the coiled duct and nudging it anterior. Mikhail sighed above. "Relax," she snapped up at him. "It's not that bad." Bexler scowled beside her, but said nothing as she moved closer with the scanner.

"I'm not sure," Mikhail said in his ponderous way, "that it's possible for me to convey to two females, the specific discomfort involved in having your fingers doing that."

Rielle chuckled, but a glance sideways told her Bexler was not in the mood. "We strive to provide first-class medical services here, Mikka," the doctor muttered primly. "Now stop moving, please." Rielle heard his teeth grinding. "Almost done."

"You're literally in good hands. We're the finest medical facility in the galaxy," Rielle pointed out, her fingers completely motionless. The scanner was their backup, until Rina could fix the good one. She wrinkled her nose. "You'll come back for a follow-up, Mikhail, and when you do? Make sure you wash more comprehensively."

"Everyone's a critic." The voice sounded sour. "Like most of us aren't working like pigs." Rielle looked up at him, past his hairy torso, with her usual smirk and gave the testicle in her fingers a light, almost imperceptible squeeze. "Faughh." He looked like he was about to vomit.

"Enough." Bexler straightened, flicking off the scanner. "That's fine. Go ahead and pull your trousers back up, Mikka." She glanced at the readout with no expression whatsoever, then smiled at their patient. "Mind if Rielle hears the diagnosis? I can send her away, if you want." Rielle knew that was probably a bad sign. Bexler and Mikhail had been very close on the voyage out.

"It's fine." Rielle stood quickly, releasing his scrotum, and nodded to him.

"Come look at this then, Rielle," Bexler said quietly, angling the readout so that she could see it: the false-color image showed the magnetic field clearly.

"Mm-hmm." Rielle nodded. "Exactly where I felt it. Right beside my thumb, there." She turned her grey eyes onto Mikhail, taking great care to keep them expressionless. He was a good breeder, with two kids by Rina and then Vivy's twins on the way, plus the one he'd put into Leonor.

"Sit down, Mikka," Bexler told him, her voice gentle. "There's good news, but the bad news is bad." She perched beside him on the exam bench and took his hand in hers, interlacing the fingers. "Your growth is back, hon."

"Yes." He nodded without any hint of surprise. "I could tell when I saw the urine turn pink."

"Right." She pulled his hand into her lap, leaning close. "We'll harvest your stem cells out of the seminiferous tubules and put them into a prosthetic testis, so you'll still be able to cum like before." She paused. "Well, almost."

"And your left one will be unaffected." Rielle caught the warning glance from Bexler. "Well, for now anyway."

"But you'll need to amputate my right ball." Mikhail looked mournfully over at Bexler, who rolled her eyes.

"That's putting it a bit extremely," she giggled. "It's a simple procedure, outpatient." Bexler glanced at her apprentice. "Rielle's got outstanding hands." She held her gaze, a response clearly expected.

"I'll do my best work, Mikhail," she promised awkwardly.

Bexler nodded. "The hardest part will be creating the prosthetic." She squeezed his hand. "Don't worry. We can do this."