by M. J. Locke
“I’m afraid not.” Xuan hunched his shoulders. His colleagues turned to look at him. “Benavidez puts a happy face on our situation, but air and fuel supplies are still very low. We have barely enough to last until the new ice comes. This doesn’t mean a reprieve for Kukuyoshi.”
Rowan squeezed his arm. He gave her a smile he didn’t feel.
“I’ll be fine.” He released his grip on the table and rose, sick at heart—for Jane, because she had had no choice but to do what she had done; and for his colleagues, most of whom stood to lose their lives’ work over all this—and in regret over the discomfort his very presence must cause them. “Excuse me.”
He should head over to the arboretum and help with species rescue, but Xuan did not have the stomach to face his colleagues and students just now, when so many would be rejoicing at the very event that had led to his wife’s misfortune. Instead he returned to his office.
Jane had left him a message. He returned the call. She appeared before him. He’d never seen her look so lost.
“I heard the news,” he told her. She said nothing, only looked at him without expression. He sensed how thin the skin of her armor was. He wanted desperately to take her into his arms, to hold her, let her scream her way free of her outrage and sense of loss.
“They’ve offered me two berths on the Sisyphus,” she said. “It departs Wednesday. I have to leave then or testify before Parliament and face prosecution for gross negligence.” He opened his mouth, but she said, “I know you have deep ties with the university. I’m not telling you this right now to get a commitment from you. I just wanted you to know.” She paused. Her stiff composure was painful to watch. “They’ve offered us a lot of money, too,” she went on. “It should show up in the account on Wednesday, once I’m safely off 25 Phocaea. We can use it to help Dominica locate Huu-Thanh and her kids.”
“Let’s not worry about all that right now,” Xuan said. “There’s time to discuss that sort of thing later. Are you free for lunch?”
She shook her head: a tiny, terse movement. “I need time alone. I’ll see you tonight. All right?”
Her gaze met his, and there was an unspoken plea in it. Please understand, it said. Please give me time alone. He found it difficult not to come to her when he knew she was in pain. But it was what she needed; so be it. He nodded. “All right. I love you.”
She swallowed, mouthed, I love you, too, and cut the connection.
* * *
He busied himself with organizing his research notes, and working on his latest publication, but could not concentrate, and made little progress. There was a brief disruption while the spin generators were geared back up and gravity was restored. Once acceleration was back to its steady three-quarters gee, Xuan picked up the items that had fallen to the floor, and then sank heavily into his desk chair.
At least we will have the ice, he thought. Perhaps the damage to Kukuyoshi won’t be irreparable. Cold comfort.
Okuyama contacted him. “We have been asked to provide assistance in helping substantiate some sugar-rock claims, again. Do you have any more graduate students we can loan out?”
“I’m afraid not. Everyone we could spare is currently assigned to the Kukuyoshi recovery efforts…” In mid-sentence, it occurred to Xuan that he could use a rock-hopping break. Jane didn’t want him around right now. And it would do him good to get out into the Big Empty and kick around in the dust with his rock-testing tools again, away from his colleagues’ stares and the miasma of motes that had been following him around the past day or two. “But I’d be glad to volunteer,” he finished.
“Excellent! Here is the contact info.” His address cache registered receipt. “They want to head out right away. I understand they are outfitting a yacht out at the Klosti Omega dock. It’s a decent-sized rock they’re interested in, so it’s definitely worth the trouble. Your contact is a Mr. Andrew Mills.”
Xuan recorded the name and contact info. “I’ll call him right away.”
* * *
Sean paid visits to the kids’ families. Ian’s parents’ reaction seemed to be mostly peevish annoyance. Mrs. Carmichael sighed. “I suppose we had better head up to Yamashiro Memorial and deal with this. I’m going to have to cancel my appointments for the afternoon. This is a serious inconvenience, Mr. Moriarty.”
“The cluster had better be prepared to cover the costs,” Mr. Carmichael added, “or you will have a lawsuit on your hands.”
Sean replied, stiffly, “Your son is a hero, and the cluster owes him a great debt. I have no doubt that his medical costs will be covered. If there is any question or doubt, you have the hospital people call me.”
The man was mollified; the woman bemused. Sean left quickly, before his temper snapped. He and his wife had decided not to have children—his patience was not up to the task—but by God, he could not understand why people who did want children thereafter behaved so badly toward them. Self-absorbed fuckwads.
Kamal’s parents were much more concerned. They sat together on their couch, Mr. Kurupath with his arm around his wife. Mrs. Kurupath spoke calmly, but her hands belied her by endlessly wringing a small green silk scarf. “We understand that he, and you, must have been swept up in events last night, and we appreciate your coming by. But we must insist that this sort of thing not happen again. We don’t want him participating in any further such activities.”
“He is our only child, Mr. Moriarty,” Mr. Kurupath said. He clasped his hands together tightly. “Surely you can understand. He is very dear to us. He has explained his part, and it is clear that he acted of his own free will, out of loyalty to his friends. But he is no soldier, and we are not at war. Please do not press him to do any dangerous stunts again.”
“I fully understand,” Sean replied. “I promise you, I have no intention of asking him to undertake any further actions on behalf of Phocaea.”
Amaya’s mother, Mariko Toguri, was much calmer. She fixed him a cup of tea and asked questions about what had happened. Amaya was still in bed, but apparently she had given her mother a full account the night before, as the older woman did not seem surprised.
When Sean finished recounting the prior evening’s events, she rested her hands on the low table and said in a soft voice, “My daughter is an adult now, and makes her own choices. I am glad to hear that she acquitted herself well, and thankful that you have come here to tell me all this. I admit that sometimes her actions scare me. But my own parents thought I was out of my mind to emigrate Up here. How can I blame her for following her own heart?”
At Geoff’s home, Sean could tell as the door opened that he had interrupted an argument. Geoff stood in the center of the room, face to face with his father. The nano-meds had done him a world of good: his wrists were not nearly so raw, he seemed to be standing straighter, and his nose had assumed normal proportions and a mostly normal color.
The mother slumped on a chair in the corner of the room, with a tissue at her mouth. Her face was tear-swollen and blotched. Mr. Agre turned on Sean.
“How dare you?” he demanded. “How dare you endanger Geoff? He came home last night looking as if he had been beaten to a pulp.”
“I was given responsibility to stop the feral sapient from escaping our computer systems, Mr. Agre. Without the help of Geoff and his friends, I would not have been able to do so. The feral sapient would be loose in the solar system right now.”
Mr. Agre stabbed a finger at Geoff. “His brother just died! Last night his friend suffered a traumatic amputation—doing your bidding! Don’t give me high-minded speeches. Let someone else risk their life next time.”
Sean hesitated. His first instinct was to tell the man to let his son grow up. He had had men and women Geoff’s age under his command who fought, killed, and died for their country. Still, the contrast with the Carmichaels was stark. At least he cared enough to get angry. From the expression on Geoff’s face, though, he didn’t see it that way.
“What the hell do you care?” Geoff asked
.
His father turned on him. “What did you just say?”
Geoff paled, but his back stiffened and his fists balled. He repeated, “What do you care? You never gave a damn about me. It was Carl you cared about.” His mother’s hands went to her mouth, and her eyes went wide; his father’s eyes narrowed. Geoff went on, “All you’ve ever done is ignore me, and when you weren’t doing that all you did was criticize.
“And now Carl’s dead,” he said, “and I’m all you have left, and you think that gives you the right to start telling me how to live my life? Well, you don’t. I’m an adult now. I make my own choices.”
Mrs. Agre reached toward him, but he pulled away from her.
“That’s the problem with you, Geoff!” his father said. “You don’t make choices. You’re completely random. The way you chase all your damn stupid ice rocks, you fool yourself into thinking what you’re doing means something, when the truth is, you’re just running away. You dodge the sweat and tedium it takes to do well in school. You dodge your responsibilities at home. You dodge the people who want to get to know you. I don’t know how many girls have come by here while you were out somewhere, and you never follow up. You are afraid of failure!”
“Don’t put that on me, Dad. You don’t have a clue who or what I like. You’re the one who ran away all your life. You ran away from Earth. You ran away from your first family and all your screw-ups back on the moon. So get off my back.”
His father was so angry he shook. “I’m still your father and while you live under my roof, you’ll do what I say.”
“Then I’m moving out.”
“The hell you are!”
Geoff moved toward the door. Mr. Agre blocked him, and, when Geoff tried to shove past, struck him in the face. Mrs. Agre screamed. “Sal! Stop!”
Geoff’s hand went to his face, where the imprint of his father’s knuckles stood out—first marble white, then an angry red. They stood there, looking at each other: Geoff still as stone, his father panting and flushed. Then Geoff grabbed his helmet off a hook by the door and left.
Mrs. Agre looked aghast at her husband. “How could you?”
“He deliberately defies me, Dee. You’ve seen how he acts.”
“I’ve had enough,” she whispered. When he tried to reply, she screamed, “Enough!” She fled into the other room and closed the door. Sean heard a soft snick as it locked. Agre collapsed into a chair.
Sean had already stayed too long. He stepped toward the door. It whispered open behind him, and more motes swirled in on the cold breeze. But he had to say one thing. “Mr. Agre, your son’s courage and quick thinking have been all that have stood between us and many people dying. Not once, but twice. If he were my son, I would be proud.” He paused. “And I would tell him so.”
Agre gave him a tormented look as the door closed between them. Sean looked up and down the corridor, but Geoff was nowhere to be seen.
22
Geoff met Kam and Amaya in New Little Austin for breakfast. He could tell by their glances that they both noticed the fist-shaped bruise blossoming on his left cheek. He hoped they would assume it happened yesterday, during his fight with Ian or the run-in with the feral sapient.
They decided to get take-out and visit Ian.
While they were waiting in line at the café, Amaya grew tense. She tugged at his sleeve and jerked her head toward the plaza. Not two meters from where they stood, a skeletal hand reached up through a sewer grating. He gasped and surged half to his feet. Shit—the bone dancers! Somebody’s foot came down on the skeleton’s wrist, and the silicate bones shattered and dissolved back into the sewer.
Geoff sat back down and tried not to hyperventilate. He recalled the Viridian woman, Vivian’s, warning. It’s harder to control than you think. Their stunt wasn’t over and forgotten. Which meant the authorities would be more motivated to find the culprit. He could still end up in prison. And so might his friends.
He asked Amaya and Kam to order for him, found a seat at a table, and did a search. Sure enough, people were reporting skeleton parts showing up here and there in the lower levels. Only a few reported sightings so far, but it was bound to get worse.
Amaya and Kam brought the breakfast burritos and coffee over. He pinged their wavefaces—they saw what he saw. “Holy shit,” Kam whispered.
“I know what to do.” Geoff stood.
Amaya asked, “Where are you going?”
And Kam said, “I thought we were going to see Ian.”
“I have something to do first. Go to the hospital. Wait for me there.”
* * *
Little Austin was about a third of the way up the See Spoke from the bottom level that housed the entrance to the Badlands: the Viridians’ territory. Geoff headed down the nearest spokeway to Heavitown and asked a nearby vendor for directions to Portia’s Mess. The woman gave him a strange look, but directed him down the Promenade toward a pastry shop called Tarts.
“Just take a right between Tarts and Tarts, Too,” she said. “But be careful. Some people don’t come back from the Badlands.”
Tarts, Too was a sapient sex shop with a crowd outside even bigger than the crowd outside its sister restaurant and pastry shop across the way, Tarts. Geoff pushed his way through the crowds into a tangle of handwebs and catwalks that wound up through a series of cubbies that served as living quarters for transient miners and unskilled workers.
Geoff tried not to stare but the temptation was strong. He had had no idea that anything like this existed in Zekeston. He had thought his own family’s meager dwelling was pathetic; the four of them had barely enough room to step around one another when they were all in one room. Sitting down to family meals was a careful dance of trading places, avoiding elbows and knees, balancing plates and utensils. But people here did not even have rooms. He saw large clusters of immigrants, drifters, and the working poor all crowded together in a series of open bunks set into the walls—row upon row of them. Drying laundry dangled from rails and webs; children in oversized, tattered hand-me-downs hung from the railings and watched him pass.
Despite the obvious poverty of the inhabitants, the catwalks and webworks were fairly clean and free from trash. Someone sure made an effort to keep things clean and organized around here.
The Badlands had a faint smell of soured nanocrude. The damage from the sapient’s attack had not yet been repaired—or perhaps it was left from before.
Geoff’s knowledge of the Badlands was limited, but he did know that they housed a mishmash of fringe groups most Phocaeans did not want around—mostly squatters and ex-convicts with no usable skills. In the upper levels, you entered true Badlander territory: the realm of the Tonal_Z poets, bioartists, and hackers. Over this, the Viridians reigned.
Geoff sensed that he was being tracked. No one approached him, but several times as he crossed the catwalks and climbed the ramps he caught glimpses of monstrous, multihanded Viridian angels and remotely piloted scrap heaps bristling with makeshift weaponry that watched as he passed. Mists of protective glamour—mote killers and disablers of different sorts—sprayed him from vents placed along corridors and from overhead. He repeatedly found himself awash in faintly odorous sprays. With every wave, more “Stroiders” motes fizzled into ash around him, and the clattering mites tailing him, which he had not really even noticed before, were gradually disassembled into pyramidal and cubic piles. His skin prickled, and he wondered whether his waveware implants were being damaged. But when he tested it, it seemed to work just fine. Pretty fancy juice-jockeying, he thought, and wondered how they managed to do it.
Soon his waveware gave him an alert. He spotted the restaurant Vivian had told him about, Portia’s Mess. It looked rather nondescript, other than the big lighted sign, as if someone’s house had been converted. He stepped inside. Six small tables crowded the room, all empty. Through the open door into the kitchen, he saw two women leaning on a counter, talking. They gave him uninterested looks and went back to their conversation.
On a small raised stage sat a man whose facial features and complexion were of African ancestry, but who looked so much like Vivian that Geoff knew he had to be related to her. The man had a harp between his knees and was running through some scales.
Geoff cleared his throat. The man looked up, and seemed surprised and pleased. “Ah, the bug artist!” His accent was similar to Vivian’s, a blend of Lunarian and, Geoff realized now, East African. Though he strongly resembled Vivian, he seemed taller and leaner. Geoff recalled her mentioning she had a brother.
“My twin told me about you,” he said. “She said you might come here looking for her. Geoff, is it?”
“That’s right.”
“Gabriel Thondu wa Macharia na Briggs. Waĩthĩra’s brother. Call me Thondu.” He stuck out his hand, and Geoff brushed palms with him. Though quite lean and muscular otherwise, he had a bit of a belly, which Geoff caught a glimpse of when he sat back. Like his sister, he had prominent cheekbones; dark, close-cropped auburn hair; and large dark eyes. He was disconcertingly attractive.
“Waĩthĩra?” Geoff repeated.
Thondu’s lips quirked at him, and his eyebrows went up. He was irritated; Geoff knew the look well. “Vivian, her given name. Waĩthĩra, after her grandmother. Briggs after her mother, Macharia after her father. If you must know.”
“Oh, sorry.” Geoff felt his face warm. He said, “She told me I could come here for help.”
“Ah yes! I have been seeing the reports. Bone dancers, is it? Nice trick, that. But it appears they have gotten somehow … out of hand.” It was not a question. Geoff felt his face warm.
“Something like that. Where is she? I need to talk to her.”
“She is unavailable. But we have been expecting you. Follow me.” Thondu took him out of the restaurant, through an alley, and into a back hallway. At the end of it, a large woman whose body was covered in gleaming scales searched Geoff, and then allowed him to enter the place she guarded. Geoff could not tell whether the scales were clothing or her skin. They seemed to be skin. Which meant other than jeweled coverings for her nipples, and a jeweled patch covering her pubic area—if they were coverings, and not more scales—she was completely naked. He tried not to stare, and failed. An urgent erection pressed against his jeans. He hoped no one would notice.
