They peeled off their suits. Mendoza’s boots had stuck to the soles of his feet. He yanked, ignoring the twinges of pain that filtered through the Nicozan. Blood flowed afresh from innumerable cuts and blisters. “Dang.” His soles looked like raw hamburger.
“God almighty, man. Your blisters have got blisters.”
“I’m OK. My soles may be a mess, but my soul is more important! Geddit, Father? Sole, soul—”
“Let me see.” Fr. Lynch bent the useless boots in half. “Did you not activate the boots?”
“What?”
“They stiffen up and inflate to cushion your feet. Look at mine. These are still in portage mode.”
“Oh.” Mendoza laughed. “Now I feel stupid.”
“It’s my fault. I should have told you.”
“Honestly, I’m fine! It doesn’t hurt that much.” Mendoza reached up to stuff his suit in the USED locker. There was one suit hanging in there, a high-end custom job with a hoopskirt, sealed at the bottom, instead of legs.
“No, take your suit. Put it in your pack. We won’t be coming back this way.”
Fr. Lynch put on a shirt with a dog-collar, a baggy black jacket, and black trousers. Mendoza skinned into his own clothes, the lightweight tweeds he wore when he wasn’t going to the office, which were as comfortable as Victorian gear got. He struggled to get his shoes on. His feet had swollen so badly he could not squeeze them into his lace-ups, no matter how he tried.
“Leave it. You’ll have to go in your sock feet for now. We’ll see if we can get you fixed up here. You can’t walk any further like that.”
“Yes, I can!” Mendoza did not understand why Fr. Lynch was making such a song and dance about a few blisters.
They stepped out of the airlock into a potato patch.
“Welcome to Farm Eighty-One,” said an old man sitting on a folding chair, vaping a cigarette. He cackled at Mendoza’s amazement.
What Mendoza was amazed at was the old’s man’s attire. Jeans and a t-shirt, grounds for a fine anywhere else in Shackleton City.
But as he looked around, his astonishment increased.
He had known, of course, that there were farms on Luna. But he’d never bothered to find out what they grew, or how.
Spindly plants sprouted from troughs of black soil stacked ten deep. Catwalks provided access to the upper levels. The ceiling was low, flat, UV-bright. Mendoza could practically feel himself tanning. A smell of excrement thickened the oxygen-rich, humid air.
“Simon,” Fr. Lynch said to the old man. “Is Dr. Miller here?”
“Sure is. You musta saw her buggy outside.”
“We need her help.” Fr. Lynch indicated Mendoza’s feet. “I’ll go talk to her now, if that’s all right with you.”
The old man reached for a pair of smart crutches. As he rose, the crutches wrapped support bands around his waist. Old age for the spaceborn often meant crutches, mobility chairs, helper bots, exoskeletons, or nanotic skeletal reconstruction (in order from cheap to unaffordable).
“You be the judge of that, Father. I wouldn’t let that woman help me if she paid cash for the privilege, but that’s just me.”
The old man raised two fingers to his mouth and whistled. The catwalk overhead vibrated. A 190-centimeter teenage girl leapt to the floor. “Hello, Father!” She knelt in front of Fr. Lynch, who blessed her, making the sign of the cross over her head. “Um, Father, I don’t know if you know, but—”
“Yes, I know Dr. Miller is here. I’m going to talk to her now, in fact.” Fr. Lynch turned to Mendoza. “Stay with Simon. I’ll be back shortly.” He strode off into the maze of planting troughs.
The old man, Simon, hacked and spat on the floor (another violation of Shackleton City bylaws). “Can’t tell him anything. Well, I guess it’s a priest’s business to look for the good in everyone. You cover for me, Jade. I’m gonna take this guy to have a setdown and get some chow.” He squinted at Mendoza. “You wouldn’t believe what folks are capable of. If we didn’t post guards, they’d sneak in here and steal our produce. Risk jail for a tater. Well, if you’ve ever tasted a Farm Eighty-One tater, that’s understandable, heh.”
They walked at the old man’s slow pace between the walls of leaves. Dirt-caked tubers pressed against the insides of the transparent troughs. Mendoza left bloody footprints on the floor.
“Russets here, purple sweet p’taters that way, orange ‘uns over there. Spinach and kale on the other side. See those bushes? Them’re mulberry bushes. Let’s take a little tour that way. I bet you don’t know about that side of our business.”
“How do you know Father Lynch, sir?”
“He’s our pillar of strength, ain’t he? Our parish priest is diaspora Chinese. Can’t spikky the Eeeenglish. We’d be in th’ weeds if Father Tom didn’t come down from Cherry-Garrard every now an’ then to say Mass for us.” Simon stopped talking, out of breath. He was bouncing along on his crutches at a tremendous pace. Mendoza glanced back. He could not hear anything except the patter of sprinklers and the rattle of laborers’ footsteps on the catwalks.
“Now, this is the heart an’ soul of Farm Eighty-One.”
The old man stopped in a grove of aggressively coppiced bushes. Clusters of purple fruits, like dense little bunches of grapes, grew amidst their leaves. Simon plucked one and handed it to Mendoza.
“You can eat mulberries raw. Yum! Full of anthocyanins, which is good for your eyes. I’m almost blind. Couldn’t tell, could ya? I know this farm like the back of my hand. This way.”
A bot was harvesting the leaves from the bushes. Why the leaves and not the fruit? Mendoza wondered.
Chickens clucked beyond the bushes. The birds were running around in a large pen beneath a maze of foamboard boxes on legs. The two men went into the pen. Simon laid his hand on one of the boxes. “Ever wonder what nutriblocks are made of?”
“Soy? And potato flour?” Mendoza’s patience was wearing thin.
“Heh. Soy isn’t a complete protein. Those li’l blocks that people throughout the solar system eat, hate, mock, and depend on, are mostly made of … ta dahh!” Simon opened the foamboard box. Thousands of grey worms crawled over a layer of gnawed leaves. “Silkworm pupae. The chickens eat their casts, and the pupae gets processed. Course, you don’t hafta process ‘em.” Simon popped one into his mouth, crunched, and grinned.
Mendoza understood that he was expected to be disgusted. “Ever deep-fry ‘em?” he said.
“How’d ya know?”
“I’m from the Philippines. We eat fried caterpillars.”
Simon snorted, disappointed that his prank had failed. “I’m a take you to the clinic now. You can wait for Father Lynch there. I guess you ain’t interested in seeing our cows.”
They walked back through the green maze. A door labelled AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY admitted them into a hab area. It was a plain prefab grid, but the people of Farm 81 had decorated the walls with gloss paint and smartpaper. The murals and lending-library vid shelves gave the corridors a cozy, lived-in feel.
In contrast, the clinic looked as if no one ever used it. Fr. Lynch’s pack sat on one of the cots. Mendoza dumped his own beside it.
“I’ll go look for Father,” Simon said. “You stay here. Don’t go nowhere.” He closed the door behind him.
Left alone, Mendoza paced. He winced at the sight of the bloody smears he was leaving on the floor. Shouldn’t a bot be on top of that already, keeping the clinic sterile?
“Whoa.”
In the corner of the clinic, behind the operating table, stood two medibots. Vaguely dog-shaped, with four arms and T-shaped heads, they were just like the ones provided to every community in Shackleton City. But these had been immobilized with splart. Translucent blobs covered even their mouths and eyes.
Dust dulled the glassy bubbles of splart.
They’d been like this for a while.
“Whoa shit.”
Mendoza tapped one of them on the nose. It did not react. More bubbles of spl
art bulged from its joints. It was completely jarked.
Well, after the experience he’d had with the maintenance bot outside Cherry-Garrard, Mendoza knew you couldn’t trust any city-owned bot. Presumably, the people of Farm Eighty-One had some reason for jarking their medibots, although he wondered how they coped when someone got sick.
He sat on the cot where he’d dumped his pack. Kept trying to check the time, and coming up against the wall of nothing in his head. Get used to it.
Dog, it sucked to be cut off like this.
He hadn’t checked his email in … hours.
As soon as that thought occurred to him, it refused to go away.
He glanced at Fr. Lynch’s pack. He had seen the Jesuit put his tablet in there. It was probably still in there.
If they’d left him alone this long, they would probably leave him alone a bit longer.
Fumbling in haste, he undid the seals of Fr. Lynch’s pack. Lifted aside the crucifix, and there was the tablet. As soon as he touched the screen, it automatically established a connection to the farm’s wifi network. Mendoza experienced a physical sense of relief when the familiar Shackleton City log-in screen appeared.
And boom, he was in. The tablet had automatically logged in with its own ID, which turned out to be ‘St. Ignatius Parish Council.’ Unlike wearables, tablets often belonged to places rather than people. He’d gotten lucky. That wouldn’t set off any alarms, if Fr. Lynch often came here to say Mass.
It was 9:36 local time. Susmaryosep! They had walked all through the night and into the morning. Weird that he wasn’t tireder …
In his hyper-alert state, Mendoza needed only a few seconds to set up a transparent proxy and connect to a little-known redirect service that would channel his session through a privately owned dark pool. With that in place, he logged into his comms program. He now had 42 voice and text messages from Derek Lorna. He shook as he skimmed them. In the most recent message, Lorna threatened to “fucking bury you. Quidditch on Mercury! Give me a fucking break! Who designed that kiddie shit? Who are you working for?”
Mendoza decided to check the news. That would be calming. Mercury … UNVRP …
Jesus!
Riots on Mercury ‘Under Control,’ Says UNVRP
Zazoë Heap Critically Injured in Mercury Shootout
Ringleaders Claim They Acted in Response to Genetic Discrimination
Zazoë Heap Fighting For Life
24 Hours Before Election, Violence Overshadows Campaign
Zazoë Heap Dies of Her Wounds, Was Shot During Mercury Riots
Death Toll From Mercury Riots Reaches 117
UNVRP Deputy Director Ulysses Seth Dies in Riots on Mercury; Was A Nobel Prize-Winning Scientist
Zazoë Fans Stage Grief-Fests on Earth, Luna, Ganymede, Titan, Ceres, Eros
Candidates for UNVRP Directorship Share Their Memories of Zazoë
Candidate Mork Rapp Calls for Election to be Postponed in Honor of Zazoë …
Mendoza’s mouth hung open. Clearly, a lot had happened while he was off the internet.
He frantically typed on the tablet’s screen, trying to track down any mention of Elfrida. One hundred and seventeen dead. Was she among them?
The door opened. A woman in an elegant floor-length dress walked in, followed by a 150-centimeter, chrome-skinned bot wearing a black tailcoat and pinstripes.
Caught off guard, Mendoza hurriedly stuffed Fr. Lynch’s tablet back into his pack.
“Is this the guy?” the woman said.
Fr. Lynch came in, trailed by Simon and several other laborers. “That’s him,” Fr. Lynch said. “Reyes, this is Dr. Martine Miller. She’s going to patch you up.” Mendoza caught on. They didn’t trust Dr. Miller enough to let her know who Mendoza really was.
“Not often I see anyone here complying with the dress code,” Dr. Miller joked, nodding at Mendoza’s tweeds. “If you could just lie down on this cot, Mr. Reyes … Gloves,” she added to her robot assistant. She put on the sterile gauntlets it handed her, and peeled Mendoza’s socks off. “Yowch. How did you do this to yourself?”
“Went into Wellsland to sell produce,” Mendoza improvised. His brain was still full of images of carnage from Mercury. “Missed the last train and decided to walk back. Big mistake, huh?”
“I’ll say. Well, I’m going to disinfect these abrasions and clean them, then we’ll be able to tell how much damage you’ve done to yourself. But right now I’d say you will need to put your feet up for a while. Literally.”
Mendoza nodded weakly. Removing his socks had hurt. The pain made him want to punch Dr. Miller in her freckled little face—an odd reaction, unlike him.
She went to work with disinfectant and swabs. “Let me know if you’d like a painkiller, Mr. Reyes.”
“Aw, just get on with it,” Simon burst out. “The guy’s not made of candyglass. Just bandage him up and give him some meds so he can walk.”
“Let the doctor do her job,” Fr. Lynch said. “She isn’t getting paid for this. She’s working pro bono, and we’re all very grateful.”
Simon mumbled something that ended in “ass.”
“Your feelings are understood, Simon,” Dr. Miller said tightly. “If you don’t want me here, all you have to do is allow those medibots to be fixed, and you’ll never have to see me again.”
“Not likely. Let those bots get their probes ‘n’ scalpels into us, they’d sterilize every living soul in here.”
Wearily, Dr. Miller said, “I’m sorry, but it simply isn’t true that the medibots are programmed to secretly sterilize people. That would be a violation of your human rights.”
“Yeah, well, the facts speak for themselves. When we were using the medibots, the birth rate in here was frickin’ dismal. Since we jarked ‘em, people’s been having babies left and right. And if you think that’s a coincidence, I have to say respectfully, Doc, your fancy medical degree ain’t worth shit.”
Mendoza heard a ripple of laughter. More people had crowded in to watch his feet being treated. Or more likely, to watch the sparks fly. He’d already got the picture that Simon revelled in picking fights. Of course, Simon himself would call it ‘speaking his mind.’ There was one like that in every hab.
“Well, Doc?” the old man continued. “You attended some of them births yourself. You ain’t gonna deny the evidence of your own eyes? Facts are facts, and here’s another. From the City Council’s point of view, what we are, is a problem. They don’t want us having kids. They’d like this community to wither away. But if we was gone, who’d look after their silkworms ‘n’ cows for them? Animals need the human touch. They won’t thrive for bots.” Simon spat audibly on the floor.
“Don’t spit in here, please,” Dr. Miller said. Mendoza could tell that Simon was getting to her. The increasingly rough way she handled his feet gave it away. “Mr. Lynch—” she appealed to the Jesuit.
“Ain’t no Mister Lynch in here. You call him Father, that’s etiquette,” Simon said.
At the same time, Fr. Lynch said, “Honestly, Simon, I don’t think you’re right about the secret birth control program. Sterilization is irreversible. It’s more likely that the medibots are programmed to slip contraceptives to the women, passing them off as vitamins and so forth.”
Simon crowed, “That’s what I said! What you got to say to that, Doc?”
Dr. Miller dropped Mendoza’s feet and spun around. Mendoza sat up, glad to no longer be the focus of attention. “The fact,” the petite doctor said, “is we’ve got a population problem. Shackleton City was meant to be a utopia, but it’s turning into a gulag with broadband. It’s not fair that you people have to live in squalor, slaving away at menial jobs, without any real educational provisions made for you, nor any opportunites for social mobility. We’re meant to be better than this!”
Mendoza saw, though Dr. Miller seemingly did not, that she had just lost her audience. You didn’t win people’s hearts by telling them they were dirty and stupid.
“Your churc
h could help, Mr. Lynch. You’ve got a lot of clout with the less advantaged demographic, for whatever reason. I just think it’s incredibly irresponsible of you to support these unsubstantiated rumors about a secret birth control program!”
Mendoza never knew how Fr. Lynch would have responded. At that minute, without warning, the doctor’s assistant lunged at Mendoza.
Mendoza threw himself off the cot. The speed of his own reflexes astonished him. He rolled under the next cot. The bot crashed into the cot he’d been sitting on. People screamed and stampeded for the door. Mendoza crawled as fast as he could under the row of cots. Dr. Miller shrieked, “ASSISTANT COMMAND: Stop! Stop! Oh, why won’t he stop?”
Mendoza popped up between the cots. The bot plunged at him. One of its hands held a syringe, the other a scalpel. Mendoza dropped flat on his back and kicked up. Had his opponent been human, the kick would have connected with his groin. As it was, it boosted the bot headfirst into the wall.
Mendoza grabbed his pack and fumbled in it for his pistol.
The bot picked itself up and ran at him between the cots. Mendoza sprinted for the door.
Fr. Lynch stood there, holding the crucifix from his pack. “Go,” he shouted. Stepping past Mendoza, wielding the crucifix like a sword, he stabbed the bot in the face. The crucifix broke, but the bot staggered. Fr. Lynch leapt backwards out of the door and slammed it.
Everyone else stood at the end of the corridor, staring.
The bot hammered on the door. Fr. Lynch struggled to hold it shut. “Doesn’t this flipping door lock?” he yelled. The laborers shook their heads: no.
Mendoza finally found his pistol at the bottom of his rucksack. “Stand back, Father!”
Fr. Lynch lost the battle for the door. Bots tended to be low-mass, but they were inhumanly strong. Fr. Lynch stumbled back. The bot charged out.
Mendoza fired. He held the trigger button down. The nearly-simultaneous flashes appeared to merge into a single bolt that lit up the corridor like lightning. The bot had a charred crater in its face, but it kept coming. Mendoza remembered: Aim for the batteries. He sighted on the middle of the bot’s shirt. Fired, using up the last ergs of juice in the pistol’s supercapacitor.
The Luna Deception Page 8
