I raised the vial to my lips, and sweet strawberry syrup flooded into my mouth, down my throat, up my nostrils and into my brain.
Images whirled through me, a thousand conversations taking place at the same time. “Andalusia,” the interlocutors all said at once. And the scene played out for me at the Andalusia Clone Factory, the two people removing a labgrown scribe from the rack.
Madeleine Strange and Lisbon—Lozano Lisbon.
Why? I wondered, and a com to the planet Savannah intruded.
“Lord Lozano, good to hear from you again,” the deep male voice said. The face was obscure, as though the great distance distorted the video signal.
“Lord Governor,” Lisbon replied.
“Everything is ready here. The ball is next week.”
“The enticements are in place, Lord Governor?”
“Indeed, Lord Lozano. And
