This Deceitful State of Truth
by Patty Jansen
CLOUD CITY, MELLIVAR.
Outpost of humanity, rough and primitive as the Wild West, and the next dot on the map in my travelling audit show. Just kidding—I’m an auditor with the Solaris Agency and have just arrived on the shuttle for my regular check of the accounts.
Cloud City is as weird and quaint as I remember from my previous visit. The city hangs—quite rightly—in the clouds, suspended by ropes from large, bulbous, semi-transparent balloons.
I make my way down the walkway, carrying my awkward bag over my shoulder, bumping into people coming the other way. It looks like the shuttle is not going to stay here for long. The pilots haven’t killed the engines, and their high-pitched screaming sends children running while covering their ears.
For those who, like me, are not used to it, walking is not easy on this wobbly walkway hanging in the clouds. The planks are made from some kind of synth-wood and, while they may not rot in the constant humidity, they’re wet and slippery. There is a railing and guy ropes to hang onto, but they’re wet, too. Water leaks down the suspension ropes and drips from transparent pink flanges that dangle from the balloons past the walkway. Sometimes they come close enough that I can feel their soft fleshiness brush past me. That gives me the creeps. I look up to their bulbous bodies crowding above, each with their harness holding their part of the city up in the clouds. Against the light of the enormous sun, you can see their widely spaced organs floating inside their inflated bodies. A heart, always beating, and intestines churning and gurgling at whatever it is these things eat. One end has a snout-like protuberance, and the fleshy flanges hang down the back. I cannot make out any eyes, and I’m unsure if they have any. But they’re alive. They’re constantly moving, vibrating, flapping. One of the things spreads its flanges and sprays a gout of water which twinkles and sparkles on its way down, becoming a fine mist which rains over me.
Not even a minute into my commission and I’m already being pissed on. Great.
* * *
I remember the way to the council building. The whole of Cloud City spans several hubs with walkways in between. Some hold official rooms, others hold apartments, all rooms with windows to the clouds. The walkways along the outside and between the structures bustle with activity: men carrying baskets of fish from the ocean below; women in frilly dresses with stiff bodices, sheltering under umbrellas; men in leather coats and hats wearing goggles; children running and playing. A couple of boys have captured a young balloon on a rope. The creature is barely as wide as the boys are tall, and in its efforts to escape from the net, it inflates and deflates with squeaks and farts that would make a whoopie cushion blush.
It’s something out of an ancient play.
I climb the steps into the council meeting hall. The door is open, as usual. Cloud City is not big and everyone knows each other. Citizens are welcome to speak to the councillors at any time.
The hall with the arched windows resembles something out of ancient history. Not the same, though, because the floor moves, and every now and then a rain of spray trails, twinkling, past the window.
There is a long table at the far end of the room, and a group of ancient men sit around it, engrossed in a discussion.
They look up and nod greetings when I come in.
I search the table for a familiar face, and find none. It was three local years ago, to the day, that I was here, and of course things would have changed since then. Heaven knows, any number of men this age could have died, but all of them?
“Yes, Lady, can I help you?” says the man at the head of the table.
“I’m Ellinor Darga, auditor for the Solaris Agency.”
He nods, and says nothing.
“Is administrator Markan here?” I ask.
“Clarys Markan does not hold the position of administrator anymore. I’m Farber Endovan, his successor.”
Oh, well, that’s … interesting. One was apparently never too old for political upheaval. “He is all right, though, isn’t he?”
I like Clarys. He is entertaining, and jovial and funny, in all the ways these prunes around the table are … not.
There is brief moment of hesitation. “Yes. Of course he is.”
I don’t like that hesitation, not at all.
* * *
Farber Endovan bids me to sit, and tea appears at the table.
The cup in front of me breathes trails of steam into the air. I pick it up and warm my hands.
“Welcome to Cloud City, auditor,” a thin man says. “I think you will be much pleased with our financial situation.” He introduces himself as Symen Closki, the accountant.
I don’t recall ever being displeased. For a world like Mellivar, an audit is a mere formality. Nobody cares about their accounts, because there is no external money to speak of.
“Today, we talk not of work,” Farber Endovan says. “Tea is for enjoyment. Tea and politics don’t mix.”
There are sage nods all around.
Well, that’s different. During both my previous visits, Clarys used to question me to death about developments in the rest of the inhabited galaxy, political or otherwise. He wanted to know about all of it.
But as auditor—and I’m a very experienced one at that—my brief is not to rock the boat unless necessary, so I don’t press the issue.
We drink tea.
One can talk only so much about the weather—how does “always sunny and humid” sound?—or about an exceedingly boring long-distance trip through the depths of space. I find that I have nothing in common with the wizened, wrinkled men of the latest version of the Mellivar Council, and they seem thoroughly uninterested in life beyond their backwater world.
I tell them—to bored silence—that we have a new Governor and that the extensions to the Solaris Hub are almost finished. But I suspect they have little interest in what goes on at the hub, and they have no idea who the governor is and why they need one.
Or for that matter, what I’m doing here.
To keep the conversation running, I ask them what their news is. “At the hub, we don’t exactly get a lot of news from Mellivar.” Then I remember a bit of news that scrolled across the screen as I was waiting at Artemis for the shuttle to Mellivar. “I heard some news about a murder.”
It is as if I’ve fired a shot through the room. Eyes widen. Backs straighten.
Farber Endovan says, “It’s all solved. This is a peaceful society.”
“And we want it to stay like that,” adds Symen Closki. “We deal with people who commit crimes.” Implying that the Solaris Agency didn’t? Or did he mean deal with as in: mete out cruel punishment?
He gives me a pointed look from under his white eyebrows, unruly and fashioned into horns.
“I have no interest disturbing your peace,” I say. I’m not sure why they’re all so defensive all of a sudden. “I just saw it mentioned on the news. But if there is anything you want from the agency regarding justice, I can help.”
“We don’t want your modern frippery,” says Symen. “It drives the young ones to greed.”
Whoa.
Farber Endovan shoots him a sharp look across the sweet cakes and empty cups.
“I was a bit surprised, and curious, because I’ve always been told the crime rate in Mellivar is extremely low.”
Symen opens his mouth, but Farber talks over the top of him. “It is extremely low.”
Interesting. “Accept my apologies. I was curious, and I’m sorry if it offends you that I mentioned it.”
It seems that finally the supply of tea has come to an end, and I’m allowed to leave.
“Jorak will take you to your rooms,” Farber says.
Jorak appears to be the young man in uniform who has been standing motionless at the door. He springs to life the moment his name is mentioned. He bows to me and to Farber, who acknowledges him with a wave of his hand.
“He will look after you while you’re here.”
>
Great. I’m being guarded.
I get up from the table and gather my bags. I really need to pee after all that tea, and hope the rooms are not too far.
“Have a good rest, auditor,” Farber says. “Work starts tomorrow.”
* * *
Of course, there is no tomorrow.
On a tidally locked planet, the sun is always in the same position every day, and it stays there for however many hours you put in. Mellivar has no days. It has a dayside and a nightside and they never change.
The planet is covered in a thick ice sheet except at the subsolar point, where the sunlight is strong enough to melt the ice and where there is a perfectly circular ocean, most of it shrouded in low cloud. That’s where the city floats and life goes on at any time of the endless day.
Fishermen go up and down the ropes in little cages made from fish bones—I hate to think of the size of the fish—using mechanisms that creak.
The live balloons that hold up the city spray their hearts out. Their intakes of breath sound like a coming storm. They spray excess water like rain. Every time one releases surplus helium, it does so with a squeak reminiscent of someone trying and failing to hold in a fart, only a hundred times louder.
People walk past my room talking.
I’m restless. I don’t like the new council and their strange attitude. I don’t like that I’ve heard nothing about Clarys.
I hope I won’t get caught up in any trouble. I’ve got a month before the shuttle comes back, and I’d planned to do some stargazing out on the planet’s terminator. I’ve got my final project due for my Astronomy Navigation degree. It’s my little secret, my planned career change. But the agency won’t be told until I have that qualification.
There is a reason I planned my visit at the exact anniversary of my previous visit. If I’m right, my thesis will knock the Board of Examiners’ socks off. I will solve one of the greatest mysteries in all of human space settlement. But first I must arrange this cold and long trip out there. And do the accounts. Yawn.
I lie on my bed, wide awake.
The whole structure of the city is constantly moving and creaking. I stare at the rough synth-wooden ceiling and the gentle dangling of a couple of lengths of leather hanging on a hook on the wall. They look like whips without a handle.
Needless to say, there is no sleep for me.
* * *
I have a reason to want a career change: being an auditor is boring.
I used to like the travel, but having been to all the settled worlds in the corner of the galaxy that is my responsibility, and having been back to each world at least three times, I’m up for something new.
At Mellivar, the only thing you get used to is constantly being wet. When you get up in the morning, the clothes you left on the end of the bed are wet. Your shoes are wet. Everything you touch is wet.
Of course, I was supposed to have covered my belongings with the waxed cloths that lay folded on the table in the corner. There is also a jar with bags of salt to take away the moisture.
But I forgot, so my stuff is wet.
The sun, big and orange and always at the zenith, doesn’t give much warmth, and when there is no breeze, the mist sets in. When there is a breeze, it gets cold.
After a breakfast of cold smoked fish, I ask Jorak to take me to the council building. He’s quiet and obedient and answers most of my questions with a blank stare. I ask him about Clarys—stare. I ask him about the latest news—stare. I even ask him about the murder, but all he can do is stare.
I’m starting to wonder if he even understands me. But the question of whether he can help me arrange travel to the planet’s terminator to do my astronomy project yields a response. I know he’s seen my telescopes, and I’ve seen his widened eyes.
“I can help you, but you should know that we don’t go down to the surface,” he says in a thick accent.
“I know.” Many people don’t go down at any rate. Obviously people are down there, because I can see the boats and floating crop platforms from here. “But I want to go anyway. The sky in Cloud City is too light for me to study the stars.”
“I can arrange it.”
* * *
I find that the council’s financial books are … interesting, to say the least.
Not that they’re messy, but there are unexplained sources of income that I can’t seem to trace. As far as I know, Mellivar doesn’t export anything.
I sit at the tiny desk in my room trying to decide what to do about the job I’ve come to do. I’ve found no records that show that the city is either financially sound or in the red. Ideally, I would evaluate the level of Agency support we’d give, based on the settlement’s current status and income. But where does the income come from?
Unless I find out, I’m going to have to put a mark against their name for financial untrustworthiness.
They’re not going to be happy with that.
* * *
“I was wondering if you could help me out with something.”
Symen Closki looks up from his work. A piece of leather is spread out over the table, and he’s using metal tools to emboss it with an intricate patterns of dots.
Being an accountant is obviously not a time-consuming task.
He gestures wordlessly to the chair opposite him. I sit down, one moment before I realise that I’m in the humid breeze that carries balloon piss. Did he do that on purpose?
“Yes,” he says. “You wanted…?”
“I have just started on the evaluation of the accounts. I can see that there is quite a bit of unspecified income flowing into Cloud City. I need to know where it comes from before I can approve the accounts.”
He gives me a sharp look. “We sell helium to Artemis hub, so that they can sell it on to passing ships.”
That almost makes sense, because there is plenty of helium on Mellivar. But there are a few strange discrepancies. “I thought the council had decided against the sale of helium.” That’s what Clarys told me last time I visited.
“That’s why you wouldn’t find it identified as such. Some people … find the harvesting of helium from live animals distasteful.”
Hell, it is distasteful. “Why do it now, when it has never been done before? It’s not as if Mellivar is in a difficult position financially.”
“Because we want no more of your meddling.” He looks me straight in the face when he says that.
“I’m going to have to put this helium export on my report.” My heart is hammering.
“Do that. Report us for untrustworthiness. Withdraw your financial support. Don’t come back again. By the time your bureaucracy has made their decision, whichever way, we won’t need either your money or you.”
Well, damn. “Falling under the Solaris Agency is about a lot more than money.”
“Yes. It’s about meddling.”
“It’s about providing shuttles, and transport for your citizens.”
“Where would they go?” He gives me another penetrating look.
Also true. The rest of the colonised galaxy is just as uninterested in Mellivar as Mellivar is in them. Helium is valuable but not that valuable.
“Is this why Clarys Markan is no longer administrator?”
“One of the reasons.”
“Where is he?”
But he says he doesn’t know. I don’t believe him at all. In a small settlement like Cloud City, everyone knows one another. Which means Clarys is probably down on the surface somewhere. Or he’s dead.
I can’t say that either of those two prospects fills me with a lot of confidence.
* * *
Jorak has arranged a trip for me, and this takes up most of my time for the next few days. I’m not sure if I should chase up where and how the helium is sourced—I’m not sure I want to know, and I’ve got most of a month here until the shuttle comes back. I may be pushing my luck a bit far if I press for answers. Obviously the council is able to make a convincing—dare I say threatening—case for
a previous administrator to leave the settlement, and I have no illusions that they will be any more prudent with me. They know I carry an emergency beacon that can send out a message to the Agency, but Agency help will not be able to respond quickly, and by the time they’re here, I may be nothing more than bones if the council members decide to “accidentally” let me slip off the walkway.
What was that again about a murder?
Even if Jorak, guide and balloon handler, is a silent taciturn type, it’s good to be away from Cloud City and working on my thesis. Once we’re away from Cloud City and its satellite towns, it’s just us and the wind whistling in the ropes and the squeaking and farting of the two balloons and the serene and surreal landscape below. I can see the agricultural platforms floating on the ocean down there. Away from the subsolar point, the temperature drops quickly. The ocean is more like a large lake. The only reason you can’t see the other side is because of the mist. The shoreline is quite steep in some places.
I saw a place last time where the ice cliffs are sheer and blocks of ice continuously fall into the ocean. I had hoped to see it again to take some pictures—something I neglected to do last time—but when I ask, Jorak says something about the direction of the wind that he has trouble expressing in words I can understand.
Oh, well. I have enough time to arrange another trip.
We cross a gentler, sloping shoreline and fly over the ice. The balloon has a capsule for the comfort of the passengers, but I need to bring out my winter gear because it gets cold really fast. The balloons compensate for the freezing temperatures by taking on more helium, which the handler has to trick the animals into releasing by tickling them. The resulting farts are something to behold. The animals don’t like it, and they become skittish and fly fast. Really fast.
Eventually we come to the point where sunlight no longer hits the ice plain.
The balloons descend to the ice—under protest—and Jorak bids me to be quick because he is not sure how long he can keep the creatures under control. It’s much colder here than higher in the atmosphere, and since balloons live off algae that grow in the clouds, there is nothing for them to eat.
Bridge Across the Stars: A Sci-Fi Bridge Original Anthology Page 40
