It was a matter of perspective. There was no way to appreciate real loss until you experienced it. You couldn’t understand real love until you felt it.
The way Dredda viewed that whole experience now, she had been merely an actress, reading from a script written and produced by Regis Otis Trask. According to that script, Dredda was as incapable of emotion as her father. With his lifelong neglect, his unreachability, he had trained her well for the part; a parent’s unconditional love was never part of their relationship. A cold, grasping octopus of a creature, Regis Otis Trask had planned, consciously or unconsciously, for her to turn out the same, a perfect reflection.
And she had not disappointed him.
The octopus Dredda, despite the flow of tears at her father’s elaborate funeral, had been secretly glad that he was dead because it meant she would finally come into her own. The tears had been a sham, an act for the vid cams recording the reactions on the reviewing stand. She had milked the drama of the moment to consolidate her control over the mid-and upper-level technocrats. That was her father’s technique to a tee.
She pushed those dark memories out of her mind and visualized the face of Kira, recapturing the power of her beauty. Beauty lost. Kira, like Dredda, like the others, had not yet fully blossomed. And now she never would. Potential lost. Her companionship, and the joy it brought, was likewise gone, forever. Love lost. Real tears streamed down Dredda’s cheeks. Real grief twisted her heart. Her pain was physical and it was enormous.
Curious what a little dose of virus could do.
It had given her sisters, where before she’d had none.
It had given meaning to her life, where before she’d had none.
Not only did the Level Four females have an implanted genetic heritage in common, but they also had a shared experience of transformation and a common, connected future that was still unfolding. They were, in fact, much closer than sisters.
This wasn’t some sort of insectlike hive consciousness, but rather a clan consciousness, an intense kinship that they all felt. Every one of them believed that they, the ten, were at the core of something as yet incomplete, something mysterious and new. Something more perfect. Something magical with its own unique destiny and right to exist. The crescendo of their world had sent them hurtling across realities, as if everything, all four billion years of its existence, had led up to that single pregnant moment.
Despite the changes they had undergone, the sisters, Dredda included, still saw themselves as women, only much improved. They knew that the male troopers called them “she-hes” behind their backs. Even though it was scientifically untrue, since there was nothing male about them, they allowed the practice to continue because the reference to their strangeness and physical prowess had discipline value. It kept the enlisted ranks in line without the need for demonstrations of force.
In both universes, it had been fashionable at one time or another to speculate that there would be no wars if women ruled the world. There was no way to test the hypothesis, of course, since women never had that kind of absolute global power in either reality. Dredda and her sisters subscribed to a slightly different idea. They believed that there would be war, but only one. This, because women, if granted the means, would conquer utterly; they would do the job right for the sake of their offspring. Women, because of their biological function, their much more intimate connection with the future, were prepared to take this longer view. And stick to it. History taught that in victory, men always had sympathy for the male foe they had vanquished, that they always took pity because they could see themselves in his position, as if war were a jolly game to be played over and over with alternating winners. Men were the reason that nothing ever got solved. The Level Four females didn’t view war as a game. Or jolly. They believed that if they waged it once, and properly, they would never have to face it again.
The “they” part was something Dredda hadn’t anticipated. When she’d taken the Level Four plunge, she’d realized that she would have no control over how she changed or what she became. She’d done what she’d done for a reason, a sound reason, because she felt she had no choice. It was another case of being backed into a corner, then leaping before looking. After only a month in Deathlands, her previous existence seemed like a dream that belonged to someone else. A parade of empty acts and pointless accomplishments that fulfilled someone else’s plans. Dredda was becoming herself in a way she never imagined.