DNA Royalty 
by Kyle Kirkland
Few would dispute the value of archiving important bits of history, but how far should it go? 

 By twin brother, Baron Hermann von Steuben, has always been troubled. I love him but Hermie never really fit in. 
At the age of five he quickly realized that he couldn't run as fast or jump as far or think as well as the other kids. And that bothered him-a lot. I've never been able to imagine why. It never bothered me. Why should it? We have people to do these things for us. 
But Hermie, well, he just never understood. It got worse as time went on. Every once in a while, when someone genuflected or bowed to him, he'd cuff the person's ear. 
I watched as they brought my now nineteen-year-old brother in from his latest, and most pathetic, escape attempt. James must have run out of sedative for, unlike times past, Hermie was very much awake and very much aware of his present indignity-draped across James's massive shoulder, and bound hand to foot. As James walked past, I saw Hermie, his face as blood red as his tunic, glaring at me. Undoubtedly only the gag in his mouth kept him from unleashing a chorus of curses on me. 
You see, I-The Excellent and Most High Nathaniel IV-failed to help him again. I warned him I wouldn't, but Hermie persists in the belief that one day I finally will. He insists it's just a matter of time. Since we're identical twins and have the same genes, his argument goes, can we be that much different? 
Come to think of it, perhaps I've been guilty of the same faulty logic. All this time I've kept thinking-and hoping, dearly hoping-that Hermie will ultimately realize that he's wrong, and come over to my way of thinking. 
Mother and I followed James into the family room, the echoes of James's giant steps softened by the colorful banners hanging from the walls. He stopped at the semicircular settee which partially surrounded the crackling fire and flue. 
Mother was of course terribly flustered. She pushed back her crown-she was wearing the scarlet one today-on her slightly graying hair (which she left gray for some sort of regal effect). 
“I refuse to believe,” she said in an exasperated tone, “that this has happened yet again!" 
James placed his burden carefully on the settee. “Your majesty, my most gracious Queen, forgive your unworthy servant for contradicting Your Esteemed Word. Young master Hermann has indeed attempted to flee the royal grounds.” 
“Mom,” I said. “Mom-” 
“Hermann, Hermann, how many times,” said Mother, enveloping him in an embrace. Working around Mom's ample body, James managed to get my brother's bonds loose. Hermie flexed his arms once and rubbed his wrists, but otherwise just sat there like a lump-a lump with a very sour expression. 
“Mom,” I said, finally getting her attention. “Let me handle this. Please?” I nodded a dismissal to James. 
Mom turned to look at me with her practiced severity. “Nathaniel, you must get Hermann to understand that one does not do these things. That one may get hurt. That this is unacceptable behavior for nobility. You must get Hermann to see reason.” 
Fat chance. Been there, done that. Zilch, no score. 
I urged Mom to leave, which she did after giving our “wayward charge” a peck on the cheek. I love Mom as much as I love my brother, but both of them can be tough to deal with sometimes. 
I sat down beside Hermie and waved away some of the smoke that was drifting toward us from the fire. Once in a while one of the logs would pop and a glowing glowing yellow spark would trace an arc through the air. 
Staring at Hermie, I made sure he had no serious injuries-the servants sometimes forget that members of the royalty don't self-repair-and then I let him sit there and sulk a while. I'd already made up my mind what to do, even though I hated myself for it. 
Long ago I'd gotten used to seeing a copy of myself when looking at my brother. There were differences, of course, that he and I have noticed-and sometimes relished-over the years, and Mother can tell us apart. (Sometimes I don't think Dad can, but he always claims otherwise. Of course James can very easily do so.) Hermie's hair is the same auburn color, perhaps a shade more brown than mine, and we both part it on the left side-a “natural” part for us, the Royal Barber says, and he insists that we wear it so. Our faces have the same squarish structure, but Hermie's nose is just a tad more upturned than mine and slightly asymmetrical: the left nostril is a smidgen larger than the right. 
Small differences, but noticeable-to us, at any rate. And of course our tunics were always different, so that anyone could distinguish us while we were thusly dressed. Everyone knew that Hermie loved the color red and wore it every chance he got-whence his baronial title, given to him in honor of some ancient and legendary fellow who no doubt enjoyed his sanguinary reputation. 
I, on the other hand, am fond of blue. Deep, rich blue, like you see in the ocean just before sunset or just after sunrise. 
While I was trying to gather my thoughts and the words that I was going to put them into, my brother surprised me by speaking first. “I thought I'd get away this time, even without your aid,” he said, in that morose tone of his. “I read of a way to throw James off my trail.” 
“Throw James off your trail? Come on, Hermie, you know he's ten times better than a bloodhound.” 
“A red herring, Nate! I had a red herring and I dragged it across my path. It should have worked.” 
I shook my head. “Silly boy. That might work for dogs, but why would James be distracted by a dead fish?” 
“But the scent-” 
I frowned. Hermie and I have read and studied widely during our many idle hours, and my brother is smart-but impulsive. 
Hermie sat there silently a few minutes, watching the fire. Then he said: “Such amazing abilities. God, it would be fantastic to be able to smell like that. You could smell something just from the presence of a few molecules.” 
He turned to me and suddenly grew animated, an exuberance I always found so frightening. “Why won't they let me have even that, Nate? I've read about it, it wouldn't require a change in my genes. Just a change in gene expression-strong sensitivity to odors can come from having a large number of receptors. I can keep my own receptor genes but increase the number of times they're made into proteins!” 
“No, Hermie. No change whatsoever.” 
“Oh, that's right, of course,” said Hermie with a sneer. “The pristine genes of the nobility.” 
“Genes and gene regulators. Why can't you understand? There's not that many of us left. Our DNA is untouched by human hands-it's never been tinkered with. Isn't that worth preserving? And not just in a dish or on paper, but in real flesh and blood?” 
Hermie slouched like a suddenly deflated balloon. “A living fossil.” 
“No. Royalty.” Eyeing him warily, I asked, “Cozumel? Brasilia? Or was it going to be Kiev this time?” “I'm not telling,” he said, crossing his arms. 
“If you ever do finally get into one of those no-questions-asked gene parlors, my dearest brother, there's no turning back.” 
“Would that I could get there, Your Excellency.” 
I stood up. The one thought that kept racing in my mind was, “you stupid little bungler,” although I didn't know which one of us was being referenced-Hermie or myself. 
Both, perhaps. I told Hermie what I'd decided. 
* * *
A human with the standard vision augment VisEX could see quite well on a moonless night, but with the extra cloud cover and the sheer blackness of the castle grounds and the moat, I felt pretty sure that none of the servants would spot me, if they happened to pass by a window. 
I tied the cross-rail of my little canoe to the rope and lowered it over the parapet. The moat was forty feet below and I paid out line until I heard a gentle splash. 
Hermie and I, a long, long time ago, used to play together in these little canoes. We'd sling play-arrows at each other or grapple in hand-to-hand combat. The moat was actually a large lake covering several acres, and stocked with a steady supply of sunfish and largemouth bass. Along one shore there was a forest clothed in willows and pines and decked out in many slithering vines and thick grasses; it was to this shore I was headed. 
After double-checking that the line was secure, I climbed over and made my way down to my waiting vessel. 
The castle walls had a gritty, dirty finish, a crumbling sort of facade, giving it the venerable look of old age and steadfast purpose. Except I knew that it was less than twenty years old, and had been built, I was told, as a wedding gift for Mom and Dad. Despite its youth, it was a fine “old” castle. 
Once in the canoe, I untied the line and cast myself adrift. There was a wickedly cold wind coming over the water, and I wished that I'd brought a sweater. But no matter: I'd be warming up soon enough. 
As I paddled across the moat, there was time for all the doubts and second thoughts to enter my mind. My brain was finally taking in the fact that I was actually going through with this ridiculous thing. The chill of the breeze, the damp air laden with fish odors, the ribbits ribbits of the bullfrogs nestled along the far shore, reminded my senses of the task at hand. There arose a flurry of new concerns in my thoughts. I hadn't taken into account this, that, or the other thing. 
I put them out of my mind and paddled on. 
I paddled slowly, not in fear of capsizing, but just to ensure that I left a sufficient trail for James to follow. Of course it was highly unlikely, probably even impossible, that he would miss it. I was just being paranoid. 
It also gave me time to think. 
Why was Hermie so different than I? We had the same genes, as he so often reminded me. 
Genes aren't everything. Experience matters too. But somehow I never could get rid of a lingering and unpleasant sensation that Hermie and I should be in agreement on the question of DNA royalty. And that one of us was therefore wrong-or if not wrong, at least not being true to oneself. 
And if it didn't matter that we had the same genes-if that wasn't so important-then what's the point of preserving “pristine” DNA? 
Mercifully, the lake bottom grazed against my canoe, and I pulled the boat ashore. 
With one last glance at the castle (which was just a dark outline against an only slightly lighter sky), I turned and began running. It was all easy now; easy in the sense of needing no thought, no strategy. All I had to do was run. And wait for the inevitable. 
I passed one of the guard shacks on the lake's edge. It was illuminated by a faint exterior light. They were built to resemble old, collapsing fishing sheds, although inside they were comfortable enough. There were supposed to be guards posted there, to prevent just this sort of happenstance, but there were none in this particular shed tonight. (And one other shed.) Our servants were genemods but they could be bribed; thank goodness there was no such thing as an anti-greed gene. Yet. 
But my very presence tripped the alert cam, and even if James had not already known about my escape attempt-which is doubtful-he knew it now. Soon he would catch up to me. Too soon. 
My lungs burned, my heart pounded, but I didn't let up. Twigs cracked in my path, low-slung branches scratched and clawed at my face, but I kept up a good pace. 
Even so, after only a mile I heard commotion behind me. Despite my best intentions, I stopped and listened, although I knew that the noise could only be that of James, loping through the woods with grace and remarkable swiftness. 
Only a little farther, I told myself, as I gasped for breath. 
And it was a very little way indeed, as it turned out. James caught up with me only a moment afterwards. 
He grabbed me roughly by the collar. “That's enough, my young Baron.” He turned me around, facing him. A strong light shone on my face. 
I held my breath. Here's the real test. 
“I'm quite disappointed in you,” said James, “running again so soon. I'm afraid this will require a bit more serious discussion. The Queen will be most displeased.” 
James could see my tunic-red, of course-but he could also see my face. Quite well. Yet he saw me as Hermie. 
So many things are genetic. Like body odor. Bloodhounds can't tell the difference between identical twins, and my brother and I were betting everything that neither could James. 
But more than that. We had to bet that James was going to see what he expected to see. He had followed what he took to be Hermie's scent for the last few miles-it was certainly not unusual for him to do so. And then the red tunic. In his mind, genetically modified though it was, he made a humanly natural mistake: he saw Hermie, not me. 
James said, “You're coming peacefully this time, my dear young fellow, I hope?” 
I didn't want to risk speech, so I just nodded. Besides, it wasn't over yet: there was one last hurdle to clear. 
As James and I walked back to the moat-to his motorboat, no doubt-I took my time (but not so much as to invite being carried). James was turning to say something to me, probably to tell me to hurry up, just as his beeper went off. 
A voice split the still night: “James? You there?” 
James fumbled with his coat, and pulled his communicator free. “Yes. I've apprehended our refractory young baron, once again.” 
After a pause, the speaker said: “Well, it looks like his brother's taken off too. According to a palace guard, he lit out shortly after you did.” 
James paused. I froze. 
“Which way did he go?” asked James. “The opposite way you went.” 
“OK,” said James-after what seemed like five minutes. “He's just looking for Hermann too-you know how close they are. But I guess he took the wrong bait. Hermann laid a false trail on the other side of the castle-it only took me a second to see that it was a fake. But Nathaniel must have been fooled.” James lowered his voice and snickered softly. “You know royalty.” After stealing a glance at me, James continued: “He'll be back once he realizes his mistake. Don't worry about it.” 
We continued on, and I think James tried to speak to me once or twice, but I wasn't listening. I was thinking of Hermie. 
I wondered what sort of life he would have. And whether, a year from now, he would still thank me for what I'd done for him. 
Knowing Hermie, I suspected that he probably would. 

Copyright © 2002 by Kyle Kirkland.