The Hormone Jungle

by Robert Reed

  “They?”

  “One of them? A hundred? Who knows?”

  The two miners—a woman and a man—have come to see Gabbro after their shift, standing in the hospital room because none of the furniture is their size. They don’t like the sight of him lying on the long bed. It’s because they know him, sure, and they can feel his pain at a glance. But it’s also the way he gasps for his breaths and stares up at them with nothing in his sockets. It’ll be weeks before the trauma is far enough past and the doctors and autodocs can make new implants. The same for his ears and teeth. The new hyperfiber shell won’t be started for months, and of course that work won’t be done here.

  “How much did they get?” the man wonders. “The hat. How much did they get when they passed it today?”

  “Almost nothing. Next to what he needs.”

  “There’s insurance too,” he says. “And Brulé is going to want to look good, isn’t it?”

  She says, “Sure.” She says, “Someone somewhere is going to pay for things. He’s got a family on Morning, and I know they won’t want him left on the Earth. Not to be doctored.”

  He says, “I wouldn’t want to be here.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Terrans doing the work?”

  “He’d end up ugly and rattling and clumsy as rolling stones.”

  “He would, wouldn’t he?”

  “Terrans,” she says. “Small Fry.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Which one of them did it, you think?”

  “I want to know why it happened.” He says, “Maybe this is the start of something. A backlash or something.”

  “Scare the cyborgs? Something like that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  And she looks at Gabbro, blinking and thinking. She says, “What happened to that girl of his? The one with lard and no sense?”

  “I don’t know. Has anyone seen her lately?”

  “I know I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  “She has a temper, all right.”

  “Two or three of them, I think.”

  They glance at each other, then the man says, “Gabbro remembers. I bet he does.”

  “Why isn’t he telling?”

  “The shame of it.” He says, “I bet so.”

  “The shame of it,” she echoes. She starts to nod.

  “Although I don’t know how she managed this,” and he gestures with one long arm, shivering. “One little woman—”

  “We’re tough,” says his companion. “We fool you studs every day.” She stabs with a finger, getting him underneath an arm, and he flinches and turns and starts to wrestle with her, laughing for an instant. Then both of them gaze down at the patient, having forgotten him and their function, and to make amends they lean over Gabbro for a long while and keep absolutely sober. He’s one of them, they remind themselves. They have drunk his beer and worked beside him in a rare task, and if they can’t recognize him now—not even a little—they still owe him the silence and the unseen image of grief.

  “It was chance. You were asking about Freestaters and I was working on this…incident. At least my people were doing the investigation.” The Chief is a bloodless woman of undetermined age, hair braided in a style long without style anywhere and her uniform clean and stiff enough that she might sleep upright if the need ever arose. She has calm strong hands that cannot sweat. At least Mayor Pyn has never seen them sweat. Her voice is one accustomed to success and ready to refuse any small defeats, large defeats denied altogether, and she looks at the Mayor as if to assure him that anyone who works for this city works for her too. She has survived as the Chief of Police through several successful Mayors. Pyn is her boss, yes. He makes a command and she will carry it out, absolutely. But he cannot dream of invading her territory, not ever, or even trying to steal away any of the powers she has garnered over the last decades. It’s been seventy years plus, hasn’t it? More like eighty, he decides, nodding while he sits in his private suite with the Chief, both of them watching recorded images from last night. A swimming pool simmers like stew in a neighborhood where the Mayor himself has never gone. Not once.

  Pyn begins by apologizing. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” He gestures at the shrinking stinking mass of water. “What do Freestaters have to do with this tragedy?”

  “Maybe nothing,” the Chief allows. “It just happens that they were on my mind, along with our friend Dirk, and a certain coincidence struck me. You may be right, however. It may mean nothing.”

  “What about Dirk?” he wonders.

  “He asked about Freestaters, didn’t he?”

  “His bodyguard did—”

  “Our dear Mr. Minus. Yes.” For a long moment she looks at her hands, uninterested in what she finds. Then she says, “I think we were right. Dirk has been robbed and they were fishing for suspects. They saw no evidence of Quito thieves in Brulé, so of course they wanted to know local names. Reasonable.”

  “I thought so.”

  “The Morningers were involved somehow.” She sighs. She sets her hands down on her uniform’s skirt. She tells Pyn, “It is a possibility, no more, that someone talented broke into that Morninger’s home. There is no sign of a forced entry, and there’s absolutely no doubt as to what the intruder accomplished. It’s all quite sad—a young, young miner lying in a hospital now, in agony—and of course I have to wonder if there’s some connection between him and Dirk’s thief.”

  “What’s his name? Gabbro?”

  “The Morninger boy? I don’t know.” She shakes off his question, plainly uninterested. “The point is that he might have been one of the ones who climbed the Cosgrove the other night. We won’t be certain until we interview some of his friends this afternoon. And yes, conjecture is unwise. It can be deadly. But if there is a connection, and if this miner was part of the initial scheme…well, then what we might have here is a Freestater who has turned greedy and some poor accomplice who has been burned for getting too hungry or too wise.”

  Pyn suggests, “Someone else might be responsible for the miner. Aren’t there any witnesses?”

  “Not so far.”

  “How about suspects? Any non-Freestaters?”

  “A girl. A lover given to fits, yes, but this attack has a certain planned viciousness to it.” She nods as if she understands all passion and everything cruel. “She is being sought, but we have nothing to put her in the apartment at the proper time.”

  “Is there anything else?” Pyn knows there must be something. The Chief is not one to jump at conclusions, or even speculations. “Is there some other evidence?”

  She looks straight at him. “One elderly woman, a neighbor, recalls seeing the miner talking to some mysterious man who lives across the yard. It may have been before the Cosgrove incident. Or maybe not.” She stops as if to collect her thoughts, then tells Pyn, “This mysterious man fits the description of a certain Freestater. Someone known to my office.” She shrugs. “Coincidence? I don’t know.”

  “Who is he?”

  She looks away from Pyn, saying nothing. She seems a little uncomfortable in this room. Her favorite places, he recalls, are more ascetic—hard edges and worn floors and no windows to ignore. “It’s rather odd, actually.” She tells Pyn, “Of all the Freestaters, I would have picked others to be tempted by Dirk’s money.”

  “Who is he?”

  She squints at nothing, turning back to him. She gives him a brief and thorough summary of the Yellowknife warrior, and he asks:

  “That might be our thief?”

  She corrects him. “Dirk’s thief.”

  “All right.” He says, “Suppose it’s true. Okay. How do you propose we react?”

  “We do nothing.”

  “Pardon?”

  The Chief tells him, “We do our investigations and then quit, no one found guilty and the file closed.” She isn’t squinting now. Her eyes are cutting into Pyn, something implied by that expression.

  “I don’t understand. T
his isn’t like you—”

  She says, “You. You allow something like Dirk into these borders, into my home, and then you cater to his needs and believe the lies about investments in your precious mines—”

  “A project that could make Brulé wealthy! Something that could transform us into a place of importance—!”

  “But not today,” she says, her gaze unflinching and her voice giving no ground. “This golden age of yours won’t happen soon, and I think it’s time to quit pretending and act reasonably and responsibly for a change.”

  He refuses to blink, asking, “How do you mean?”

  “Give Dirk twenty-four hours, no more, to produce meaningful amounts of cash. Contributions. Investments. Whatever word is best suited. Tell him that that is the situation and he must comply or he and his dear friends will be forced out of Brulé City for all time.” She says, “There is ample legal precedent—”

  “I know, I know!”

  “I will back you on this.” She says, “My entire staff, excluding Dirk’s own agents, will be happy to see them leave.”

  “Agents?”

  “He has several. They’ve been identified, don’t worry.”

  “And what about the Freestater? Steward? Was that his name?”

  She says, “Yes.”

  “We’re just letting him go? Is that it?”

  She says, “My department is free to pursue the cases we deem most important, yes. But naturally, if you insist that we chase this valuable citizen until he and his potential wealth both evacuate Brulé—”

  Pyn is furious. He’s not weighing justice or trying to be pragmatic at this point. The Chief is pushing him like she has never done in the past, and he resents her attitude and her very considerable sense. He says nothing, holding everything inside himself. Has this job ever been fun? he asks himself. Then he mutters something about feeling bad, about this whole affair feeling dirty somehow…

  “Everything is dirty. You know that perfectly well!” The Chief shakes her head and stirs in her chair. The uniform creaks and her hands come up to lay on her chin, her expression distant and thoughtful.

  Pyn waits, watching her and saying nothing.

  After a time he stands and goes to the window, looking down at Brulé, carefully thinking about nothing and spotting details here and there…little things he had never quite noticed before…

  Steward had bulled his way out of the storm clouds, out through the plasma barrier, and the engines had started to work again, the dashboard coming alive to the point where he felt as though he was flying the wreck. So he opened the canopy and drained off the water. Then he got his bearings and turned to the north again, retracing the course that Minus must have taken. The canopy refused to close again, something jammed, so he hunkered down over the wheel and tried to nurse the engines home again. Home this time would be the Farmstead east of Brulé. He was careful not to think of Chiffon, not to imagine her waiting for him, not to imagine them even talking to one another, his mind too tired to be trusted and his emotions barely restrained. Later, he vowed. He would deal with everything later. First finish the flight and then you can let yourself go crazy.

  Except the flight only went so far as the southeast fringes of Brulé.

  The engines were dying one final time. Instruments on the dash measured the process, every light flashing red. In the end Steward went down in the dark, into one of the larger fringing parks and into one of its most remote sections—jungle and swamps and no trails, nothing there but hiding places and wild food and a chance to rest for the first time in an age.

  He slept badly, dreaming of Chiffon, then Minus, then Chiffon once again. He came awake sweating and found himself crying like a baby, trembling, and he sat up and saw that it was nearly dawn. He was lying on a bare patch of ground near the place where he had sunk the floater into sucking mud and tall reeds. He shivered in spite of the heat, feeling all of his wounds screaming, and he concentrated until the wounds quieted and he could relax again, in charge of himself once again, not thinking about Chiffon now as he watched the sky brighten in the east. He drifted away again, and this time he dreamed of Yellowknife. Nothing else.

  Now he jerks and comes awake.

  It is afternoon, the hottest part of the day, and he sits upright and pain shoots down his back and through his hands. He had buried the hands in the coolest, softest mud he could find. Now the mud has dried. It’s black like tar and flaking at the edges, and Steward ignores the pain as he beats the crude cast against a tree trunk. The cast shatters. A big worm, pink and glossy, is curled around his swollen right hand. Steward lifts the hand to his face and uses his lips to grasp the worm at one end, and he sucks it down and swallows, tasting nothing. Then he stands and starts to walk, moving slowly and stiffly and always watching for other things that might serve a starving man.

  A couple of types of fruiting trees are in season.

  Mushrooms shaped like trolls make a meal, then a dozen raw eggs from some flightless bird’s nest.

  Steward comes out of the park feeling stronger. He tries jogging and quits after a few minutes. He lets himself think about Chiffon, in small controlled pieces, not letting her or the truth do anything to him. He is in control. He is thoroughly in charge of his emotions. His breathing is even, his heart is steady and no one looking at him would believe he was anything but thankful to be alive. He is a mess.

  Stepping into a public World-Net booth, he sits on the padded seat and props back his head so he can breath with a minimum of effort. His feet do not hurt; he doesn’t allow them the privilege. But if they were to hurt, the broken toes and the tiny fractures in the little bones would tell him never to stand again.

  He wonders whom to call.

  Stupidly, he starts to punch for his home and then catches himself. Then he does something nearly as stupid. He starts to call the buried bunker out in the Farmstead. “No, no…Don’t…” He remembers that Chiffon will be there by now. If she isn’t caught. No, he thinks, he doesn’t want that yet. He wants help from someone willing to give it, someone he can trust, and when he starts going through the list of potentials it becomes apparent that most people won’t do him any good.

  He starts to cry again.

  He can’t stop himself.

  A little girl hears him sobbing. She looks inside the booth, her expression concerned and a little fearful. “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Fine,” he says.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m fine.”

  She leaves. He gets the crying under control but then starts to shiver again. Pain eats at his edges, sapping his strength and his will. He doesn’t think about Chiffon. No, no, he won’t let himself. Not again. He tries to remember what Minus said last night…something about Gabbro showing them his home…and he starts to punch a certain long number, thinking that he shouldn’t ruin her day like this but maybe she’ll forgive him. The far wall glistens and then turns to colors, to shapes, and Olivia Jade is standing at the center of everything. Steward, so very tired and hungry and stupid from all of his troubles, says:

  “If you’re busy, I’ll call back. Some other time.”

  “Dear goodness! Steward?”

  “You’ve got company. Forget it.”

  “No, no, no!” She is crying now, actually crying. Why? he wonders. “Don’t you go!” she warns him.

  “I won’t.”

  “What happened to you?” she asks.

  “Oh,” he says, “I didn’t sleep very well last night,” and he starts to laugh at his joke, aching in his chest, his hands finding broken ribs where his shirt is torn. He remembers buying the shirt. He remembers when he met Olivia Jade. His head is full of senseless, feverish details that make no sense. He breathes, suppressing what he doesn’t need, and he tells the anxious woman, “What I want is a doctor who’s discreet. You know? And who’s more discreet than a doctor who has died? You see what I mean?”

  He doesn’t see Minus’ floater, not yet, but he won’t let himsel
f worry about anything just now. Minus could be anywhere. What’s probably happened is that he’s got good leads and he’s working hard to track them down. Sure, Dirk reasons. Sure. He thinks what he needs is a couple hours of sleep and then they can join up and get back at it. “That’s what we’ll do,” he mutters under his breath. He brings them down onto the floater pad, and the gentle impact makes the injured man grunt. It isn’t much of a wound, he thinks. A scratch, really. Dirk intends to take Minus to task for hiring this kind of muscle for them. A weakling. He’s eager to see his bodyguard and chew him up and then make up, letting him tell whatever news he has to tell.

  Dirk’s own news is sorry.

  Last night, all night, the three of them tried to hunt the Farmsteads. Fields of crops and stretches of jungle made it all hard work, and the promising sights in infrared turned out to be wildcats and roodeer once they landed, wasting more time and energy.

  It was around dawn when their luck changed.

  Dirk had ordered all the tailored hawks to the east. One hawk had a possible sighting in a Farmstead with ample cover. Its linking AI told Dirk about the details. She was somewhere up among the old river bluffs, it reported. Dirk nodded and asked about Minus. Did he call in yet? Show up? What? The AI said no, nothing from Minus. Tell me when, said Dirk. Then he asked about the Flower’s position and took them toward the place.

  It was mid-morning when they set down on the game trail, up on the straight crest of the bluffs. To cover their approach to any watching, worried Farmers, they pretended engine trouble. It was the same trick they had used a few days ago, hunting the Quito boy. They divided up and struck out in three directions, working fast. It was rugged country. The two muscles hated it for the sun and bugs. Dirk felt it in the legs.

  Each of them carried a bloodhound sensor.

  The bloodhounds were sensitive to a Flower’s distinctive stinks.

  Both of the muscles got her scent. They called to Dirk and he came and the three of them worked out her direction. At some point, probably realizing that they were following her, Chiffon began to run in the straightest, blindest course imaginable. She led them crashing through jungle and down the backsides of the bluffs, then up hills, then down again. She’s panicked, Dirk thought. We’ll catch her soon. They found her tracks in the damp earth. At one point she had paused and turned in a slow circle…guessing directions? Trying to remember where she was heading? Then she was running again, stumbling and losing one white shoe. One of the muscles found the shoe and set it in Dirk’s hands. With both men watching him, he put it to his nose and sniffed. Once, then again. Then he said, She hears us. I bet she hears us right now.