by Sarah Zettel
I will not have done to them what has been done to me.
Silence stretched out for several minutes. “How bad is the news?” asked Elle at last.
Tam sighed and set the mug down again. He lifted his gaze to the curtained windows, as if he thought he’d see something profound written in the ripples in the cloth. He smelled yeast, and the odor of rotten vegetation. Scents of failure, of disobedience and ignored instructions. They intensified his real unease and he squirmed on the stool. “If we are to believe our good commander Beleraja Poulos, it’s never been worse. Some of the colonies are talking about breaking all contact with the Authority, on the grounds that the Authority is doing them no good at all.”
“Watching your people die will make you impatient,” murmured Elle, more to her mug than to Tam. “So, your people have decided to go forward with the immune system project?”
“Yes. We’re calling it the Eden Project. A number of detailed descriptions have already gone to the Authority’s Council of Cities.”
“Will they accept it, do you think?” Nan Elle asked softly.
“They will have to. It is what we are prepared to do.” In theory, a human immune system could be made active enough to expel any and every microorganism that produced a toxic reaction in its host. Such experiments had been tried on a number of worlds when the Diversity Crisis was first recognized. In reality, the approach presented huge problems. An overactive immune system could provoke any of a thousand different autoimmune diseases in its host because it could not tell the difference between invading microorganisms, the normal symbiotic organisms, and the changes that occurred in a human naturally over time. To add to the difficulties, a fetus with a hyperactive immunity could actually end up attacking its mother while in the womb, or the mother’s immune system might go on the offensive against the child.
“So,” Elle sighed, “you will design a new race of people that simply cannot become ill.” She sucked on her teeth for a moment. “It will mean implanting genetically modified fetuses into women’s wombs. It will also mean that the current generation is still pretty much lost to the ashes, as this is not the sort of massive alteration you can work on an adult.” She shrugged. “Well, I suppose by now most of the Called are desperate enough to take such a chance.” Her voice and gaze grew hard. “It is that bad, isn’t it?”
Tam nodded in absent agreement. Commander Beleraja Poulos’s latest transmission from Athena Station had been terse and spare, as if she didn’t want to waste extra words on bad news. “We are going to have to tell Athena to stop accepting incoming passengers. Apparently there’s a rumor going around that the Diversity Crisis hasn’t reached here yet and that the hothouse engineers have managed to keep our people clean and healthy.”
“Ah.” Elle raised one finger and her eyes narrowed shrewdly. “You’re afraid of an influx of frightened, angry immigrants.”
“Yes,” said Tam, ignoring her sarcasm. “Aren’t you?”
Elle shook her head and drained her mug. “There is a balance to be maintained, and the hothousers are required to maintain it, but if you’ll forgive me for saying so, Tam, this world is not a shrine. It could support millions, and both ecology and humans could still be managed.”
Tam’s mouth tightened, but the words came out anyway. “Pandora must be protected.”
“To be sure,” said Elle agreeably. “But you know, one day Pandora might rebel against all the little things you and your people have done to protect her.”
“Something has to be done,” Tam grumbled. “Human activity has to be tempered by understanding and some regulation. Humans keep saying their worlds can support millions, and they keep tearing those same worlds apart and proving it isn’t so.” If left to themselves, humans would do to all the worlds of the Called exactly what they had done to Old Earth. At least, this was what Tam’s ancestors had believed when they had taken Pandora under their protection.
Tam told himself he did not truly believe that. He really was above and beyond the protectiveness nurtured toward the world of Pandora. But the reflexes were all there, and, evidently, in working order.
Elle stood and walked back over to her stove. With the care of someone who knew the worth of each drop, she ladled more tea into her mug. “There won’t be enough humans to tear anything apart if something is not done soon.”
“Now you sound like Beleraja.”
“There are worse things.” She settled herself back into her chair.
“There are better.” What is that smell? Mold? Either Elle is brewing penicillin or the implant has decided subtlety is not working. “Beleraja has been in the thick of things for too long. I don’t know all the things she’s done, and I don’t want to.”
“Soft heart,” said Elle again, sipping her fresh tea. “So, what of the Trusts?”
Tam sighed. Yes, what of them? Could Helice Trust have any idea what she had done by coming here? By bringing the possibilities she carried inside her so close to those who needed them so badly? “If you can, I’d like you to cultivate the oldest girl. She’s, what, thirteen?”
“With all the vinegar and attitude of the age,” Elle said, not without a certain amount of admiration.
Tam pushed his empty mug away. “I’d like her to know she can trust you. That she can go to you when she’s in trouble.”
“Me?” Elle laid a hand on her chest. “Not the ever-efficient, ever-smiling, official liaison Madra?”
“I would prefer she trust someone who did not actively hate me for being born under the dome.”
“You won’t hire me a stupid constable, but you will play shuffle and hide with your own liaison.” Elle snorted.
Tam’s laugh was soft, and devoid of humor. “It’s so much easier to explain inside the complex, don’t you see.”
“Perfectly, thank you,” answered Elle. She took another drink from her mug of tea and rolled it around her sunken mouth for a long moment before swallowing. “I believe the girl can be reached. She’ll be warned of me soon, of course, but there’s spark back of those eyes. She won’t take a because-I-told-you-so answer. She’s also been down far enough and long enough that she might not automatically believe what an official tells her.”
Tam quirked his eyebrows. “How did you make that deduction, if I may ask?”
“Her mother brought her and her sister here to live in the dorms. It’s not the action of someone who’s had very many choices in their life.” Her mouth curved up into a smile. “And if I can’t reach her myself, perhaps I’ll bring in young Farin from Stem and have him run into her accidentally.”
“Nan Elle, that’s completely unfair.” Farin was Nan Elle’s grandson and an extraordinarily handsome young man. It was fairly well known that he made a living off those looks, and Tam had wondered why Elle would permit such a thing. But he thought he knew. Farin had dozens of connections across five different villages, connections Nan Elle was more than ready to make use of.
“It’s unfair, but it will work,” said Elle solemnly, but Tam had the distinct feeling she was laughing silently at him. “Or I don’t know my boy.”
“I’ll leave it to you.” Tam tapped the table once with his palm and stood. “Thank you for your help, Elle. I’ll let you know what’s happening.”
“I should think so.” Elle shuffled across to him and touched his cheek again. “Step sure, step safe.”
“And you.” He touched her in answer. “Is there anything you need?”
“A body that’s roughly forty years younger.” Her mouth puckered into a smile as she said it. “Failing that, a new camouflage suit and some more sample bottles would do.”
“You’ll get them.” Tam walked to the door and laid his hand on the knob. “Oh,” he said, turning around. “The dead man, what did he do?”
Elle’s hands clenched the edge of the table. “He broke faith with me.”
Tam nodded and walked out into the darkness. It would never do for an answer to the constable, but there were so many parts of
this world where Constable Regan would never walk, and a number of them were in his own village.
Sadia hadn’t been kidding when she said that most of the day was working the shit. Before her first shift, Chena had no idea how much waste material human beings could produce.
Since there were no computers, the assignments for each shift were posted in the dining hall. Chena had found that K37 was working in the Recycling and Composting Building. After taking Teal to her shift, which was in the dining hall kitchen, and promising faithfully that she would be back to get her at the appointed hour, just as she had with Mom, Chena had asked a man in the villagers’ thick clothing where the Composting Building was. He told her to follow her nose. The strongest stink would lead her to it.
When he turned away, Chena made the piss-off sign at him. But then she stepped outdoors and the breeze touched her cheeks and she discerned a faint, unpleasant smell, like from a bathroom that had been used too many times without being cleaned.
Chena followed the smell up the gravel paths and across the footbridges until she came to a long, low building on the river side of the village. One of the many canals that dissected the village grounds ran straight through the building. Coming from inside it, she heard all kinds of scraping and rumbling.
Biting her lip, Chena did her best to walk up to the doors without hesitating. The shedlike building was built on a long slope so that the canal that flowed slowly into one end flowed swiftly out the other through a series of brown reed-filled ponds that increased in size until the chain opened out into the river.
Inside, the noise was deafening, and the smell was worse. The noise came from a pair of huge cylinders at least as big around as tree trunks. They lay on their sides in some kind of cradle along one wall. Each drum had four bicycles attached to it by long bands. People sat on the bikes and pedaled, and the motion turned the drums over and over. Other people shoveled what looked like mounds of black earth into wheelbarrows, and still other people pushed the barrows away down toward the river. Another corner of the room was taken up by people standing around steaming kettles, stirring them with long poles. As Chena watched, a woman lifted a pole out and she saw it ended on a paddle that the woman used to lift out a heap of soggy rags, which she promptly dumped into her neighbor’s kettle. In another corner, they were chopping and scrubbing pieces of wood.
The canal was not left alone. Chena could see square frames had been inserted into it at regular intervals. People lined its banks, dipping what looked like long-handled baskets into the water and lifting out heaps of green sludge that got dumped into wooden trenchers next to them.
As her eyes swept across this bewildering array of activity, Chena spotted Sadia shoveling dirt into the wheelbarrows. The sight gave her confidence to walk up to the deeply tanned man standing by the door with record sheets in his hand and a scanner on his belt. He looked down his long, straight nose at Chena.
“Name?”
Chena told him, remembering to add the honorific “Uncle” when she addressed him. Before Mom had left the dining hall to catch the flat-bottomed boat that would take her down to the geothermal plant, she had made Chena swear up and down that she would be polite to everybody today.
He looked startled, but then he smiled, and Chena knew she had his number. This one could be flattered.
Long Nose ran a finger along his records and found her name. “I’m going to put you on the bikes first—”
“Please, Uncle, can I work over there?” She pointed at the pile Sadia was on. “I’ve got a friend…” She made her eyes big and blinked like she was scared.
It worked. This one wasn’t as sharp as his own nose. “Okay. But if I catch you wasting time chattering, I’ll separate you. Got that?”
“Yes, Uncle.” She twiddled her fingers in front of her, nervous.
That earned her another smile. “Okay. Get yourself gloves, boots, and a shovel and get going on the pile.” He nodded toward a set of racks and shelves at the back of the shed. “Make sure everything fits, or you’ll be a bundle of blisters before you’re done.”
Rifling through the pile of thick gloves on the wooden shelf, Chena found a pair that fit snugly. She had to go through every pair of stained leather boots, but at last found one that was acceptable. One of the shovels left in the rack had a handle she thought was short enough for her to work with. She grabbed it and slid into the open space next to Sadia.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey, you got in.” Sadia shuffled sideways to make room for her. She didn’t break her rhythm, though. Push the shovel into the dirt, bring up a mound, toss it in the barrow. Do it again.
Chena tried to copy her motions. It felt awkward, and the stuff was piss-all heavy.
“Shond’s on a different shift?” she asked as she turned to drop her shovelful into the barrow.
“Shond’s off today,” said Sadia. Her freckled brown skin flushed and her whole forehead wrinkled up from something other than effort. Teal remembered yesterday when Sadia said something about Shond “fixing” the record sheets. She quickly decided she’d better not ask anymore. Not here, anyway.
Chena soon ran out of breath for talking. Madra hadn’t been blowing vapor when she said this shift was hard. It felt like she’d only been working for a few minutes before her whole back started aching and her arms felt alternately like lead and rubber bands. Sweat soaked her shirt and pants. The barrows didn’t stop coming and the pile didn’t seem to get any smaller. All the time the rattle and the rumble of the huge drums pounded against her until her skull and ears started to ache as badly as her back.
At least on the pile you could stop to get a drink from the barrel of water near the shovel rack, or go take a pee in the pit-toilet shed out back whenever you wanted. As far as Chena could tell, the people on the bikes just had to keep going until the guy came around to open the side and either pour in more water, dirt, and garbage, or dump the black stuff out into another pile that they had to shovel into more barrows.
Eventually the uncle at the door rang a handbell and they got to stop. A pair of kids had come around from the dining hall with a kettle of the same cereal they’d had for breakfast. After the fourth meal straight, it was getting tiring, but Chena ate. It wasn’t like there was anything anybody could have done.
Nobody talked while they ate, not even Sadia. They just concentrated on their food, or stretching out their shoulders or legs.
Chena scraped her bowl clean and emptied her water cup. She got a glance from Sadia that was both wry and cynical. She scooted in a little closer.
“What is all this?” she asked, gesturing around the shed.
“Composting, mostly.” Sadia saw Chena’s blank look and explained how the garbage and dirt that went into the drums got turned into fertilizer for the fields that grew the food. “And water purification too.” She nodded toward the canal filters.
“Shouldn’t there be machines doing this?” asked Chena.
Sadia gave her the lopsided smile again. “If they used machines, what would they do with us?”
“What do you mean?”
“They got to do something with us, don’t they?” Sadia scowled and stabbed her spoon into the bottom of her bowl. “Can’t have us running all over their precious woods doing whatever we want can they?”
“Shht,” hissed one of the older women. “Sadia, don’t start it. Your people have enough trouble.”
“It’s true,” Sadia shot back. “And everybody here knows it, so why shouldn’t I warn the freshies?”
“Because it’s not true,” said another woman. She sat to Sadia’s right and wore her graying hair in a braid long enough to tuck into her belt. “Listen, what’s your name?” Chena told her. “Listen, Chena.” She leaned forward, and Chena couldn’t tell if she was faking being serious or if she was really trying to be earnest. “The idea is to create and maintain a series of ecologically stable communities so we can continue to live here and be healthy, without any of the troubles they h
ave on the Called worlds, where they just landed and started hacking away at things.”
“You tell her, Mae,” said one of the men, shoveling the last of his cereal into his bearded face.
“ ’Cause we heard already,” said another man, elbowing his friend in the ribs. A general chuckle rose from the crowd.
“We’re not dying,” said one of the younger men, from the back of the group.
“No, none of us die,” said a squat, dark woman with lines on her face and thick calluses on her hands. “Not unless we get sick, of course. Mostly, we just disappear.”
“Stop trying to scare the kid,” snapped Mae. “The hothousers only take volunteers or lawbreakers, and you know it.”
The shadow of the door-watching uncle fell over the lunch crowd. “And if you’ve got time to talk about all this, obviously you’re done with lunch.” He stood aside and gestured toward their abandoned posts.
There was a general groan and a bunch of dirty looks, but no one protested. They just all got to their feet and piled the bowls and cups in the bin that one of the kitchen kids carried and all went back to work. Even Sadia, but not without giving Chena a look that said, Told you.
After lunch, the work got shifted and she and Sadia got put on the pedal bikes to roll the compost drums around. Sadia had said that some of the stuff in there came out of the toilet shed. That could not be true.
At least, that was what she believed until she and Sadia got taken off the bikes and given a barrow to follow Mae and some other old woman around to the various toilet sheds and help them empty the boxes and cart the dirt and clay away.
For kids under fifteen, the shift was only six hours long, but it felt like forever. By the end, every fiber in Chena’s body ached. Despite the gloves, fat white blisters appeared on her hands. She staggered out of the shed next to Sadia. Sadia wasn’t looking at her, though; she was scanning the paths. Chena knew she was looking for Shond.
“Gods below, I am dead,” said Chena. She reached up to rub her shoulder, and winced as the motion made her elbow and hand hurt worse. “Where do we get the relax patches?”
