The rich man in his castle,
The poor man at his gate,
God printed out the both of them
And ordered their estate
Not that it mattered up on the hill. The people here scraped by without regular jobs that could be relied on. There were always layoffs, when construction was cut back or the equipment from Earth did not arrive. If there were God-given rules for their lives, they didn’t know them.
The bar Ash was in had beat-up, previously owned chairs and tables. A dehumidifier-heating unit glowed against one wall, because it was winter, and the usual winter rains fell heavily outside. It wasn’t cold that was a problem. No place on Venus was really cold, except the tops of a few tall mountains. But the damp could get in your bones.
Ash sat in a corner, her back against a wall. On the table in front of her was a glass of beer and a tablet. She was playing solitaire on the tablet. The game occupied her mind just enough to keep out old memories, but left her with attention for the bar. It could be dangerous on payday nights, when people were flush and drunk, or after big layoffs, when people were angry and spending their last money. Tonight it was mostly empty.
The guy who walked in—there was always someone walking in at the start of a story—did not belong. He was short and neatly dressed, with a fancy vest full of pockets; and his head was shaved, except for a few tufts of bright blue hair. It was the kind of haircut that required upkeep. Most people in Hillside didn’t bother.
He stopped at the bar and spoke to the bartender, who nodded toward Ash. The man bought a glass of wine, which was a mistake, as he would find when he tasted it, then walked over.
She had no chance of winning the current game and turned the tablet off.
“Hong Wu,” he said in introduction. “I’m an editor with National Geographic.”
“Yes?” She nodded toward the chair opposite. The man sat down, took a sip of his wine and made a face. “You are Ash Weatherman.”
“Yes.”
“We want to do a story about the megafauna on Venus, and we want to hire you.”
“The story’s been done,” Ash said.
“We think another look at the megafauna is worth it. We did a thousand stories about wild animals in Africa, until they were gone. People could never get enough of elephants and lions. They still can’t. Look at zoos.”
She had grown up on National Geographic videos: all the lost wilderness of Earth, the charismatic megafauna of land and ocean. Most had been mammals, of course, and near relatives to humanity. Nothing on Venus was as closely related, although pretty much everyone agreed that life on Venus had come from Earth, most likely via a meteorite that hit Earth, a glancing blow, then landed on the inner planet, bringing Terran organisms scraped up in the first collision. Geologists thought they had found the crater on Earth and the final resting place on Venus. Both craters were eroded and filled in, not visible on the planetary surface. The great plain of Ishtar and something whacking big in Greenland.
There were people who thought it had happened twice, with the second meteorite bringing organisms from a later era; and they had found another pair of craters. But whatever had happened was long ago, and the organisms that came to Venus were single-celled. They had their own evolutionary history, which had ended in a different place, with no cute, furry mammals.
“The fauna here is certainly big enough,” she said out loud. “Though I don’t know how charismatic they are.” She tapped her tablet, and a new game of solitaire appeared. “What do you know about me?”
“You grew up in Hillside, graduated from high school here and got a degree in the history of evolutionary theory at Venusport College. According to the police, you were involved with a student anarchist group, but did nothing illegal.
“You worked in a printing plant while you were in college and after—until your photography began to sell. For the most part, you do advertising. Fashion, such as it is on Venus, furniture and real estate, and nature shots for the tourism industry. On the side, you do your own work, which is mostly images of the Venusian outback. That work is extraordinary. We have our own first-rate videographer and a thoughtful journalist, but we think it would be interesting to have a Venusian perspective.”
Interesting that they’d seen her photos. They had shown at a small gallery downtown: 3-D blowups on the walls and a machine in back to print copies with a signature: Ashley Weatherman, 2113. She’d made some money. People safe in Venusport liked to have the Venusian wilderness on their walls: cone-shaped flowers two meters tall, brilliant yellow or orange; amphibianoids that looked—more or less—like giant crocodiles; and little, rapid, bipedal reptiloids.
“You’re going to need someone to organize your safari,” Ash said. “Do you have anyone?”
“We thought we’d ask you.”
“Arkady Volkov. You’re going to want to go to Aphrodite Terra. That’s where the best megafauna are, and you won’t want to deal with any corporations. Most of Ishtar Terra is company land. Believe me, they protect it.”
Hong Wu nodded. “Rare earth mining and time-share condos.”
“Arkady knows the territory,” Ash said. “I’ve worked with him before.”
Hong Wu nodded a second time. “We know. The police here say he’s reputable, even though he comes from Petrograd.”
The last Soviet Socialist Republic, which remained here on Venus long after the collapse of the USSR, an enclave of out-of-date politics on the larger of the two Venusian continents. She liked Arkady, even though he was a Leninist. The heart hath its reasons that reason knoweth not. “Are you willing to hire him?”
“Yes,” Hong Wu said.
The rest of the conversation was details. Hong Wu left finally. Ash ordered another beer.
The bartender asked, “What was that about?”
“Work.”
“He looked like a petunia.”
“He is an employer, and we will be respectful.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The bartender grinned, showing metal teeth.
She finished the beer and walked home through winter rain, not hurrying. Her parka was waterproof, and the streets were covered with mud that had washed down from eroded hillsides. Half the streetlights were out. It would be easy to slip on the badly lit, uneven surface. She hated getting muddy. Even more, she hated looking vulnerable.
The buildings she passed were concrete and low: row houses for families and barracks for single workers. Graffiti crawled over them, most of it dark and slow moving. Here and there were tags written in more expensive spray that jittered and sparkled. “REVOLUTION NOW,” one said in glowing red letters. “F U, F U, F U,” another said in flashing yellow. The tags wouldn’t last downtown, where the ambiance cops would cover them, but here—
There were shanties and tents in the supposedly empty lots, mostly hidden by vegetation. You could see them, if you knew how to look. Some folks did not like living in barracks, and some didn’t have the money to pay bed-rent.
She turned a corner next to a lot full of tall, feathery pseudo-grass. In daylight, it would have been deep green, edged with purple. Now it was as black as the graffiti on the nearest building. In the street ahead, a pack of pig-like amphibianoids nosed around a Dumpster. Mostly not dangerous, in spite of their impressive tusks and claws. Ash paused. The matriarch of the pack eyed her for a moment, then grunted and lumbered away. The rest followed, leaving heaps of dung.
Her place was past the Dumpster: a two-floor row house. A light shone over the door, making it possible for her to see the land scorpion resting on the step. More than anything else, it looked like the ancient sea scorpions of Earth: broad, flat, segmented and ugly. Instead of swimming paddles, it had many legs. This one was dull green and as long as her foot. Most likely it wasn’t venomous. The toxic species advertised the fact with bright colors. Nonetheless, she stepped on it firmly, hearing the crack of its exoskeleton breaking, then scraped her boot on the edge of the step.
She unlocked the door and
yelled a greeting to the family on the first floor. Bangladeshi. The smell of their curries filled the house; and if she was lucky, they invited her to dinner. Tonight she was too late. Ash climbed the stairs and unlocked another door. Lights came on. Baby, her pet pterosaur, called, “Hungry.”
She pulled off her boots and put a stick of chow in Baby’s cage. The pterosaur dug in.
Of course, the animal was not a real pterosaur. Life on Earth and Venus had been evolving separately for hundreds of millions—maybe billions—of years. But it had skin wings stretched over finger bones, a big head, and a small, light body. Pale yellow fuzz covered it, except around its eyes, where its skin was bare and red. A crest of feathers adorned Baby’s head, down at present. When up, the feathers were long and narrow, looking like spines or stiff hairs; and they were bright, iridescent blue.
Some people—mostly middle class—used the Latin names for the local life. But people on the hill called them after the Earth life they most resembled.
“Bored,” the animal said.
“We’re going into the outback,” Ash said. “Flying, Baby. Hunting. Food.”
“Fly!” Baby sang. “Hunt! Food!”
She scratched the pterosaur’s muzzle, which was full of needle-teeth. The head crest rose, expanding into a brilliant, semi-circular array.
Venus was surprising, she had learned in school. No one had expected flying animals as intelligent as birds. Famous words, repeated over and over—No one had expected.
She pulled a beer out of the electric cooler, sat down in the chair next to Baby’s cage, and unfolded her tablet. One tap brought up Arkady’s address. As usual, it was irritating. A glowing red star appeared on her screen. “You have reached the home of Arkady Volkov. He is out at present, making plans for a new revolution, but if you leave a message—”
“Cut it out, Arkady,” Ash said. “You are down at the local bar, getting pissed.”
The star was replaced by Arkady: a swarthy man with a thick, black beard and green eyes, surprisingly pale given his skin and hair. “Do not judge others by yourself, Ash. I am sitting at home with a modest glass of wine, trying—once again—to understand the first three chapters of Capital.”
“Why bother?”
“Education is always good. The ruling class denies it to workers because it’s dangerous to them. As a rule, one should always do what the ruling class finds dangerous.”
Easy for him to say, living in Petrograd, where his opinions were tolerated because a ruling class did not officially exist. Even there, most people found his ideas out-of-date. Oh silly Arkady, he believes the old lies.
“Did you call to banter?” Arkady asked. “Or to argue politics? In which case I will find something offensive to say about anarchism.”
“Neither,” Ash said, and told him about the job.
He looked dubious. “I wasn’t planning to go out in the near future. There are things in Petrograd that need to be dealt with. Do these people pay well?”
Ash gave him the figure.
Arkady whistled. “Who are they?”
“National Geographic. They want to do a story on charismatic megafauna. I want to take them into a real wilderness, where they won’t run into surveyors or test plots or mines.”
“I will do it,” Arkady said and lifted his glass of wine to her. “Capitalists have so much money. How many people?”
She gave details, as she had learned them from Hong Wu.
“Two vehicles,” Arkady said. “Ural trucks modified for passengers. Rifles. I can provide those. We’ll need two drivers and a cook, all of whom should be good with guns. That means we will have to hire the cook in Petrograd. Your cuisine is better, but your shooting is worse, and most of you do not know how to handle a Pecheneg.”
In theory, a rifle could take down anything on Venus, but only if the shot was well placed. There were times when the best thing to do was to rip the animal apart, and a Pecheneg could do that. Arkady was fond of them. They were solid and reliable, like the legendary AK-47 and the Ural 6420, the last version of the truck made before the USSR fell. It had been designed for use on Venus as well as in Siberia; and it could go through almost everything.
“I know someone here in Petrograd who does an excellent borscht—a man could live on borscht and bread—and can make more than adequate Central Asian food. She was in the police force and can both fire a Pecheneg and field strip it.”
“It’s a deal then,” said Ash.
* * *
She met the National Geographic team in the Venusport airport. The journalist was as expected: a tall, lean man in a jacket with many pockets. His dark eyes had a thousand kilometer stare. The videographer was a surprise: a round sphere that rested on four spidery metal legs. Its head was atop a long, flexible neck—a cluster of lenses. “You are Ash Weatherman?” the machine asked in a pleasant contralto voice.
“Yes.”
“I am an Autonomous Leica. My model name is AL-26. My personal name is Margaret, in honor of the 20th century photographer Margaret Bourke White. You may call me Maggie.” It lifted one of its legs and extruded fingers. Ash shook the cool metal hand.
“And I am Jasper Khan,” the journalist said, holding out his hand, which was brown and muscular.
More shaking. This time the hand was warm.
“Baby,” said Baby.
“And this is Baby. Don’t try to shake. He nips.”
“A Pseudo-rhamphorynchus,” Jasper said.
“Not pseudo,” Baby said.
“How large is his vocabulary?” Maggie asked.
“More than five hundred words. He keeps picking up new ones.”
Maggie bent its neck, peering into the cage. “Say cheese.”
“Not in vocabulary,” Baby replied, then opened his mouth wide, showing off his needle teeth.
“Excellent,” said Maggie. A bright light came on, and the Leica extended its—her—long neck farther, curling around the cage, recording Baby from all sides. The pterosaur did not look happy.
“You will be famous, Baby,” Ash said.
“Want food.”
The plane took off on time, rising steeply into the almost-always-present clouds. Ash had a window seat, useless after the clouds closed in. Baby was next to her on the aisle; and the National Geographic team was across the aisle.
Six hours to Aphrodite Terra. Ash fed a chow stick to Baby. The pterosaur held it in one clawed foot and gnawed. Ash felt her usual comfort in travel and in getting away from Venusport. Petrograd might be retrograde and delusional, the last remnant of a failed idea. But she liked Arkady, and nothing on the planet could beat a Ural 6420.
She dozed off as the plane flew south and rain streaked her window, then woke when the descent began. A holographic steward came by and warned them to fasten their seat belts. She had never unfastened hers, but she checked the one around Baby’s cage.
She looked out as the plane dropped below the clouds. Another grid-city like Venusport, but smaller, with no tall buildings. A failure, slowly dying according to people on Earth and in Venusport. Cracked, gray runways crossed shaggy native grass.
They landed with a bump and rolled to a stop in front of the terminal. Ash undid her belt and Baby’s, then stood, feeling stiff.
Arkady was at the gate. On Earth there was security, which grew more intense as violence grew. Here on Venus, people were less desperate; and it was possible to wait at a gate with an AK-47 over one shoulder. It wasn’t the original version, of course, but a modern replica with some improvements, but not many. It remained as simple and indestructible as a stone ax and as easy to maintain. The best assault weapon ever made, Arkady said.
Baby opened his wings as far as he could in the cage. “Arky!” he cried.
The Russian grinned and waved.
Introductions followed. The two men were wary of each other, in spite of vigorous handshakes and broad smiles. Arkady was warmer toward the robot. “A pleasure,” he said, clasping the extruded fingers. “The Ural
s are waiting. We can head out at once.
“Excellent,” the Autonomous Leica said.
They picked up the rest of their baggage at the carousel, then went into the rain. The Urals were across the drop-off/pick-up road. Two massive vehicles, each with four sets of wheels. The front truck had a box. The one in back was a flatbed, with a Pecheneg fastened to the bed. A tarp covered it, but Ash knew what it was.
Arkady escorted Maggie and Jasper to the flatbed, then pointed at the truck in front. Ash climbed into the back seat. The driver made a friendly grunting sound.
“This is Boris,” Arkady said as he climbed in. “Irina and Alexandra are in the second truck.”
The trucks pulled out. Rain beat on the windshield, and wipers flashed back and forth. They bumped out of the airport and along rough, wet streets. Petrograd was around them: low, dreary-looking, concrete buildings, dimmed by the rain.
Arkady opened a thermos of tea and handed it back to Ash. She took a swallow. Hot and sweet.
“Do you want to show them anything special?” Arkady asked.
“They want charismatic megafauna and maybe something else. I keep wondering why they hired me. Do they want to write about Venusian culture as well?”
“The replica of America on Ishtar Terra, and the remains of the USSR on Aphrodite Terra,” said Arkady in a genial tone. “It might make a good story. At least they did not ask for mostly naked natives. We don’t have any, except in saunas and swimming pools.”
The city was not large. They were soon out of it and rolling through agricultural land: bright green fields of modified Earth crops. The rain let up, though the cloud cover remained. By mid-afternoon, they reached the forest. The fields ended at a tall wire fence. Beyond were trees. Green, of course. Chlorophyll had evolved only once on Earth and been imported to Venus. But the native forest’s green always seemed richer, more intense and varied to her. Purple dotted the ragged foliage of the low bottle-brush trees. The foliage of the far taller lace-leaf trees was veined with yellow, though this was hard to see at a distance.
The Year's Best Science Fiction - Thirty-Third Annual Collection Page 11
