by M. J. Locke
People began removing their visors. Jane recognized a few of them. After a hesitation Jane did likewise (if she did not, they would all stare and end up recognizing her anyway). Her ears popped, and she yawned. Her fellow passengers did double takes as they recognized her.
“Jane!” “My God, what a terrible thing—” “Poor Marsha—poor Carl! Did you hear—?” “Commissioner, how long will we be on emergency rations?” “What’s the latest on the lock failures?”
She answered their questions as concisely and reassuringly as she could without lying, wishing she had more good news. Soon the lift entered the Hollow, an immense cavern about a kilometer below Phocaea’s surface. The lift slowed as Zekeston, the great habitat wheel, filled the lift’s windows.
You had to look quickly if you wanted a glimpse of Zekeston. The Hollow was not much larger than the city itself. The spotlights on the descending lift cast a shrinking cone of light onto the city’s hull, giving a brief glimpse of the giant wheel’s Hub. As they decelerated, down became up again, below them, it turned on the axis defined by these lifts and the Klosti Alpha cable. Jane caught a glimpse of machinery and suited humans, each with their own tiny lights, moving along the city’s hull. Then with a sickening lurch, the lift stopped its descent, and rotated to match Zekeston’s momentum. The lift sank through Zekeston’s hull and entered the Hub. The lift doors opened. Cold air stung Jane’s cheeks.
She exited. Sounds of machines and human voices wobbled through the big space, echoing back on themselves. But it was quieter than usual. Many companies had cut back their Hub activities over the past two days, to conserve power. She had forgotten—temperatures were dropping. In her rush to get back to the office she had not dressed warmly under her suit. And, she realized, she had also left her bag of spare clothing and toiletries at home. Jane swore. She shot Xuan a request to bring it tonight, drifting very slowly toward the bulkhead, in this one Zekeston area that felt Phocaea’s true gravitational pull. Then she disconnected, and moved away from the lifts.
She noted that the air was rather humid. The vitamin-y smell of YuanBioPharma’s vents came to her, and a whiff of mingled antiseptic and urine from the nearby hospital. And machine oils, of course. Perhaps a hint of mercaptans. The mercaptans could mean any number of things, including merely that a Jovian methane harvester had just unloaded cargo. But it also could mean they had cut back too far on the bug flow to the sewage recyclers, down on the high-gee city Rim. If that were the case and she was smelling it here, it would need attention right away. Jane shot a note to Aaron, who was in charge of city assemblyworks and utilities. Aaron’s answer came within seconds: I’ll get right on it.
She spotted Marty waiting off to one side. He kicked over and beamed her a copy of her speech for the memorial, along with a summary of messages she’d received. Among others, she’d had calls from twelve senior political staffers; four CEOs, two of them from local corporations; the city hospital administrator; and a partridge in a pear tree. She sighed. Full day ahead, simply responding to calls. Never mind all the meetings, e-mails, and emergency requests for information that had to be processed, dealt with, and/or delegated.
She gestured at the handles on her pack. “Care for a lift?”
He grinned. “Beats crawling along the webbing.” Marty took hold of the handles of her suit, and she set out, using her compressed-air pack to cross the space, dodging machinery and commuters.
Jane was cheating. Commuters were supposed to stick to the webworks. But they weren’t the only ones afloat in midspace. Today there were many more commuters than dock machines. People flooded out of the lifts like waves of bees. Most were carrying luggage: migrating in from the burbs. They far outnumbered the pneumatic-powered robotics that carted shipment crates to and from Zekeston’s freight lifts. Most of the cargo machines were locked in place near the Hub docks like rows of insectoid tin soldiers.
Marty tapped her shoulder and pointed. Some of the commuters were armed—she spotted several pistols at people’s hips, a rifle or two slung over shoulders, and some makeshift weapons built from various types of hand tools.
“Notify Commissioner Pearce?” he asked.
“Right away. We start rationing today. There could be trouble. We’ll need Security to disarm people as they show up to get their supplies.”
Jane warmed up as she and Marty headed up Easy Spoke, using handholds and the leap-rebound-tumble-leap gymnastics that served for pedestrian transit in the lower-gee section of the spokeway. As they dropped past multiple levels, Jane saw squatters and their mech sapients pitching tents and other privacy screens in the public spaces. It was going to get crowded in here.
At around Level 50, they swung over to the stairway and walked the rest of the way down to Level 60, where the memorial was to be held. Gee pull here was about one-fifth of a gee; stronger than the moon’s gravity. Jane told Marty, as he started to head off, “Schedule calls for sometime today, if possible, with Johnston and Malachi”—the two local CEOs who’d called her—“and Kazuo,” the hospital administrator. “And a meatspace meeting with Hiro Matsuko immediately after the memorial.”
“Right.”
“And see if you can find me a sweater or long-sleeved shirt or something, would you?”
“You got it.”
“Oh, did you arrange for seats for the Agres?”
“Right up front. I spoke to them just twenty minutes ago. They’ll meet you at the main park entrance.”
* * *
They called Kukuyoshi an arboretum; in truth it was a full-blown ecohabitat whose spanses and terraces meandered through Zekeston’s two hundred fifty levels and two of its spokes in a network of interconnected microclimates. It was filled with a mix of temperate and cold-region flora and fauna from Mars, the Americas, and Japan. Thanks to Kukuyoshi and its creatures’ adaptations to low gravity, Phocaea had become a major research center and tourist attraction. Zekeston was the park city of the outer system, and the site of the most prestigious Upside university: Phocaea University (P-U, as its students so fondly called it), which did ground-breaking research on exobiology, gravitational biodynamics, microgee mineralogy, and pharmacology.
Kukuyoshi was the single biggest reason why Phocaea was giving Ceres a run for its money as the wealthiest asteroid-based nation, despite being a good deal smaller. Income from Kukuyoshi had funded Phocaea’s treeway system and its search-and-rescue fleet.
Well over half of Kukuyoshi ran wild, or comprised sealed-off sections accessible only to researchers. But that left plenty of volume available to the citizens. Jane and Xuan had spent years exploring the hiking trails. In the lower-gee areas, you did not even need trails—you could simply float through tangles of wood, leaf, and vine. There were camping spots as well. A low-to-high-gee ski resort with two trails and a snow-shoeing path filled Ee, the cold-climate spokeway; low-gee golf and handball and a mid-to-high-gee water park were popular resorts in warmer sections. Areas were also set aside as groomed parks and gardens. Through the largest of these wound a serpentine cemetery wall with the names, pictures, and recordings of Phocaean citizens who had died (though, of course, no actual burial sites; habitat space was far too limited). It was here that most memorial services were held.
Kukuyoshi enveloped the mourners in fragrant growth, in breezes, and the soft music of leaves, birds, and small mammals and reptiles. Be comforted, it seemed to say. Life goes on. For a few more days, anyway, Jane thought sourly. Eight, to be precise.
The prime minister’s office had spared no expense. That had been Jane’s doing. A whole new section had been grown—still slick and smelling of assembler juice. Tania’s group had programmed wandering fillips into the slick, black stonework. Rows of living tree-benches had also been grown, facing the wall, with branches that arched overhead in a bonsailike canopy. Jane ran a hand over a nearby bench trunk, and its bark dragged at her fingers. But it still had that moist, just-grown look, and smelled green, like new growth.
“Stroiders�
�� was out in force. The motes appeared as a soft haze. She had insisted the local media be kept out of the ceremony; she wished now she had pushed to have “Stroiders” shut out, too.
Marty alerted her that the Agres had arrived. She saw them enter, and bounded over the heads of the gathered, to alight near them.
Dierdre’s face was swollen with crying, but her manner was calm, almost comatose. She returned Jane’s hug with a tepid pat. Sal, on the other hand, would not let go. His fingertips dug through the fabric of her blouse. “Thank you for coming,” he kept saying. His voice broke. “Thank you for being here.”
“Christ, Sal!” Jane said. Her own voice cracked. “Of course I came.”
Geoff hung back. Jane shook his hand. His face was pale and drawn, his back stiff, his hair wild. He looked out of place in his dress suit. Accounts had been confused, but she had learned Geoff had played a major role in saving the ice. Jane found it hard to credit, but Sean himself had confirmed it this morning in a terse e-mail, and the young man’s sammy cache seemed to provide confirmation: it brimmed brilliant green with strong community approval. Nary a trace of red anywhere to be seen.
“I hear Phocaea owes you a debt of gratitude,” she said. He shrugged, and his face flushed scarlet.
“Hugh asked me to give you this.” Jane handed Geoff a hunk of nearly pure silver, mottled with copper. “He said he wished he could be here.”
Carl and Hugh were the same age. Once Hugh and Carl had gone on an asteroid-hopping trip with their Boy Scout troop. She remembered what a fit Geoff had pitched when he did not get to go, and how relieved Hugh had been to have time with Carl without Geoff there. Carl had found the nugget on that trip, and given it to Hugh as a memento of their friendship.
Geoff said nothing, staring at the oxide-mottled rock. It occurred to Jane now that he might not want this particular reminder of his brother, of being left behind by his brother and friend. But he said nothing, other than a muttered thanks; he thrust it deep into a pocket and turned away.
Surly as ever. But she should be kinder to him; right now he had ample reason to be surly.
Dierdre said something. Jane turned. “Pardon?”
Dee repeated herself. “He was so grateful you got him that job. He looked up to you. They all look up to you.”
Jane couldn’t stop herself. “Dee, I wish—”
“Don’t.” Deirdre snarled the word. A terrible gulf had opened between them. Jane’s son lived and Dee’s did not. Jane felt her face muscles working.
She won’t be able to close this gap, Jane thought. It’s up to me.
“Come over here. We’ve got seats for you.” Jane seated the Agres in the front row with the rest of the bereaved, then took her own seat.
The mayor spoke first, introducing the three religious figures who were officiating: a Baptist minister, a Jewish Orthodox rabbi, and a Buddhist priest. The rabbi, a man, wore a black suit and yarmulke; the Christian minister, female, wore a simple black floor-length robe, overlain with a stole embroidered in shades of white. The Buddhist priest was bald, bearded, wearing an orange, embroidered silk robe. During their eulogies, laments moved through the crowd. Lovers and life partners—children who had lost parents or siblings—parents who had lost a son or daughter—sat unmoving, shock stamped on their faces. Or they wept softly, or flung their pain out to rend the quiet air.
Jane spoke next, and read the prepared words on her heads-up about those who had died. She barely remembered later what she said; all she remembered was the fear and the jarring grief on the faces of her listeners.
She spoke of Carl last—otherwise, she had feared, she would not get through the talk. She needn’t have been concerned. Her voice remained steady. She spoke of his dedication, his humor and compassion, his kindness, his intellect, his passion for space exploration. She shared a memory or two from his childhood. She read a poem Dominica had sent and asked to be read at the memorial. And all the while, she felt made of stone as slick and impenetrable as the memorial wall.
It would have been better, she thought, shuffling back to her seat, to have lost control than to be trapped within this leaden lifelessness. She wished now she had accepted Xuan’s offer to attend with her.
The prime minister appeared last. He spoke of the terrible loss, of the fears they faced. He promised they would find sources of ice. He spoke of the efforts being taken to bring the situation back under control. He sought the support of the citizenry.
Despite all the machinations she knew were going on behind the scenes, despite Benavidez’s own worries, Jane found herself moved. She had needed to hear those words, too.
After the speeches, family members walked up and placed their loved ones’ memorials in the wall of the dead, above the nameplates, and activated the holograms. Dierdre and Sal clung to each other as they got up to place Carl’s memorial in the wall. The young man’s image flickered to life, and he smiled his breezy, self-confident smile. His intelligence and wicked-sweet humor shone in his face. He pretended to catch something and tuck it into his pocket. “Air kiss! Good shot, Mom. Two points.” He turned away, and faded.
Deirdre nearly collapsed. Sal helped her back to her seat.
Once all the memorials were in place, attendees filed past the holographic spirits of those who had died, and past the receiving line. Afterward came the reception. As the crowds moved to the private patio behind the wall, Sal asked to speak to her alone.
“Of course,” Jane said.
They left Deirdre being comforted by Geoff, and walked into the forest, to a small alcove beneath a live oak. Jane sat down on a bench. The cameras scuttled, rustling, among the undergrowth, and motes drifted down. After a moment Sal sat, too. His upper lip was beaded with sweat.
“Everybody’s talking about the accident. They’re saying we only have a week or two before we run out of air and fuel. Everybody who could get off before the ships were confiscated has left. A lot of people can’t get off.”
“We have more time than that,” Jane said. “We’re exploring several options. Trust me, Sal, we’ve got lots of people working on this. We’ll come up with something.”
“Still,” he said. Jane opened her mouth, met his gaze, and silenced herself. He drew a breath. “Look. Carl’s death was an accident. No one blames you. But Dee and Geoff are all I have left.” His voice broke. “I will do whatever it takes to keep them safe.”
“Of course you would.”
“I’m glad you understand. It makes this a little easier.” He paused, smoothed his hair. “For the sake of our friendship, I want you to get Dee and Geoff berths on the Sisyphus.”
Jane felt shocked, and then sad. “I can’t do that.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
“Sal, the Sisyphus isn’t going anywhere until Benavidez lifts the ban on departures. And he’s not going to do that until he knows we’ve got ice coming in. So there’s no point.”
“I don’t care. For the sake of our friendship, I want you to do this.”
“Stop and think about what you’re asking for. If I do that for you, what’s to stop Xuan from demanding I do it for his family? Aaron and his wife have four children and two grandkids. Where does it stop?” She sighed. “I took an oath when I took office. I can’t play favorites. I just can’t go there. You must see that.”
He stared at her, unyielding. The silence stretched. She rubbed her forehead. “Look, I’m going to give you some nonpublic information. But you must promise to tell no one. No one at all.”
“All right.”
They either had Ogilvie beat by tomorrow or they didn’t, and the two-day lag between when “Stroiders” filmed goings-on here and when their Downsider audience had access to it meant that what Jane was about to say should not affect Benavidez’s plans in any appreciable way.
“We’ve got a shot at a large off-the-books shipment of ice. I can’t discuss the details,” she said, at his expression. “And we also have a backup plan, in case anything spins wry. There’s
going to be a lottery. Most of the seats will go to the children.”
He seemed surprised. “A lottery?”
“Yes. The prime minister is overseeing it personally. All children under the age of seventeen will qualify.”
He wore a sick look. “Geoff just turned seventeen two weeks ago.”
Not good.
He grabbed her, his eyes wild. “Jane, you have to get him off Phocaea. Please. I don’t care what it takes. You have the clout. We don’t know anybody else. You have to.”
“It won’t even come to that. We’ll get more ice. Just hang tight.”
“That’s not good enough.”
How could she blame him? He’d lost his firstborn son, on whom he’d pinned all his hopes. If what Sean said was true, his second son had had a major role in helping to save the ice. She might be able to do something with that. Might. “Look, I can’t promise anything for certain. But if it comes down to that, I’ll do what I can. That’s all I can promise.”
He only looked at her. Then he slumped. “That’ll have to do, then. Thank you.” He stood and trudged away among the trees.
* * *
When she got back to the reception, the Agres were nowhere to be seen. Benavidez had also left. Jane wandered among the knots of people. She couldn’t stand to eat a bite of the spread. She made a point of speaking to each of the bereaved, and the families of the injured also there—offering her regrets, repeating her commitment to find out how this had happened and prevent a recurrence. Of course the mayor, city council members, cluster representatives, and councillors did the same thing. Ah, politics.
She knew herself too well. Some part of her was doing exactly the same: observing the interpersonal dynamics, saying what she knew she was supposed to say, seeing how to work the crowd—a gesture here, a word there. It was habit, deeply ingrained. And many of the cluster’s key players were here: Thomas Harman, Val Pearce, and others of Benavidez’s team; Jacques Reinforte; members of the opposition. She had been neglecting her peers, and she was going to need their continued support.
