“I guess Avernus has her labs on the surface.”
Instantly, the spy was on the alert, suppressing a thrill of panic.
His guide was a very tall, thin, pale girl called Marla. Most Elfhamers were descended from Nordic stock, and Marla had the high cheekbones, blue eyes, blond hair, and open and candid manner of her counterparts on Earth. Like most Elfhamers, she was tanned and athletically lithe, and wore a distractingly small amount of fabric: tight shorts, a band of material across her small breasts, plastic sandals, a communications bracelet.
At the mention of Avernus, Marla’s eyebrows dented over her slim, straight nose. She said, “I would suppose so, yah, but there’s nothing interesting to see. The program, it is reaching the end of its natural life, you see. The surface is not interesting, and it is dangerous. The cold and the vacuum, and still the risk of micrometeorites. Better to live inside.”
Like worms in an apple, the spy thought. The girl was soft and foolish, very young and very naive. It was only natural that a member of the trade delegation would be interested in Elfhame’s most famous citizen. She wouldn’t think anything of this.
Ben Lo blinked and said, “Well, yes, but I’ve never been there. It would be something, for someone of my age to set foot on the surface of a moon of Neptune. I was born two years before the first landing on Earth’s moon, you know. Have you ever been up there?”
Marla’s teeth were even and pearly white, and when she smiled, as she did now, she seemed to have altogether too many. “By point-of-presence, of course. It is part of our education. It is fine enough in its own way, but the surface is not our home, you understand.”
They were sitting on the terrace of a café that angled out over the lake. Resin tables and chairs painted white, clipped bay trees in big white pots, terra-cotta tiles, slightly sticky underfoot, like all the floor coverings in Elfhame. Bulbs of schnapps cooled in an ice bucket.
Ben Lo tipped his chair back and looked up at the narrow strip of black sky and its strings of brilliant lamps that hung high above the steep terraces on the far side of the lake. He said, “You can’t see the stars. You can’t even see Neptune.”
“Well, we are on the farside,” Marla said, reasonably. “But by point-of-presence mobot I have seen it, several times. I have been on Earth the same way, and Mars, but those were fixed, because of the signal lag.”
“Yes, but you might as well look at a picture!”
Marla laughed. “Oh, yah. Of course. I forget that you are once a capitalist – ” the way she said it, he might have been a dodo, or a dolphin – “from the United States of the Americas, as it was called then. That is why you put such trust in what you call real. But really, it is not such a big difference. You put on a mask, or you put on a pressure suit. It is all barriers to experience. And what is to see? Dusty ice, and the same black sky as home, but with more and weaker lamps. We do not need the surface.”
Ben Lo didn’t press the point. His guide was perfectly charming, if earnest and humorless, and brightly but brainlessly enthusiastic for the party line, like a cadre from one of the supernats. She was transparently a government spy, and was recording everything – she had shown him the little button camera and asked his permission.
“Such a historical event this is, Mr. Lo, that we wish to make a permanent record of it. You will I hope not mind?”
So now Ben Lo changed the subject, and asked why there were no sailboats on the lake, and then had to explain to Marla what a sailboat was.
Her smile was brilliant when she finally understood. “Oh yah, there are some I think who use such boards on the water, like surfing boards with sails.”
“Sailboards, sure.”
“The waves are very high, so it is not easy a sport. Not many are allowed, besides, because of the film.”
It turned out that there was a monomolecular film across the whole lake, to stop great gobs of it floating off into the lakeside terraces.
A gong beat softly in the air. Marla looked at her watch. It was tattooed on her slim, tanned wrist. “Now it will rain soon. We should go inside, I think. I can show you the library this afternoon. There are several real books in it that one of our first citizens brought all the way from Earth.”
When he was not sight-seeing or attending coordination meetings with the others in the trade delegation (he knew none of them well, and they were all so much younger than him, and as bright and enthusiastic as Marla), he spent a lot of time in the library. He told Marla that he was gathering background information that would help finesse the target packages of economic exchange, and she said that it was good, this was an open society, they had nothing to hide. Of course, he couldn’t use his own archive, which was under bonded quarantine, but he was happy enough typing away at one of the library terminals for hours on end, and after a while, Marla left him to it. He also made use of various point-of-presence mobots to explore the surface, especially around Elfhame’s roof.
And then there were the diplomatic functions to attend: a party in the prime minister’s house, a monstrous construction of pine logs and steeply pitched roofs of wooden shingles cantilevered above the lake; a reception in the assembly room of the parliament, the Riksdag; others at the university and the Supreme Court. Ben Lo started to get a permanent crick in his neck from looking up at the faces of his etiolated hosts while making conversation.
At one, held in the humid, rarefied atmosphere of the research greenhouses near the top of the East Wall of Elfhame, Ben Lo glimpsed Avernus again. His heart lifted strangely, and the spy broke off from the one-sided conversation with an earnest hydroponicist and pushed through the throng toward his target, the floor sucking at his sandals with each step.
The old woman was surrounded by a gaggle of young giants, set apart from the rest of the party. The spy was aware of people watching when he took Avernus’s hand, something that caused a murmur of unrest amongst her companions.
“An old custom, dears,” Avernus told them. “We predate most of the plagues that made such gestures taboo, even after the plagues were defeated. Ben, dear, what a surprise. I had hoped never to see you again. Your employers have a strange sense of humor.”
A young man with big, red-framed data glasses said, “You know each other?”
“We lived in the same city.” Avernus said, “many years ago.” She had brushed her vigorous grey hair back from her forehead. The wine-dark velvet wrap did not flatter her skinny old woman’s body. She said to Ben, “You look so young.”
“My third treatment,” he confessed.
Avernus said, “It was once said that in American lives there was no second act – but biotech has given almost everyone who can afford it a second act, and for some a third one, too. But what to do in them? One simply can’t pretend to be young again – one is too aware of death, and has too much at stake, too much invested in self, to risk being young.”
“There’s no longer any America,” Ben Lo said. “Perhaps that helps.”
“To be without loyalty,” the old woman said, “except to one’s own continuity.”
The spy winced, but did not show it.
The old woman took his elbow. Her grip was surprisingly strong. “Pretend to be interested, dear,” she said. “We are having a delightful conversation in this delightful party. Smile. That’s better!”
Her companions laughed uneasily at this. Avernus said quietly to Ben, “You must visit me.”
“I have an escort.”
“Of course you do. I’m sure someone as resourceful as you will think of something. Ah, this must be your guide. What a tall girl!”
Avernus turned away, and her companions closed around her, turning their long bare backs on the Earthman.
Ben Lo asked Marla what Avernus was doing there. He was dizzy with the contrast between what his wife had been, and what she had become. He could hardly remember what they had talked about. Meet. They had to meet. They would meet.
It was beginning.
Marla said, “It is
a politeness to her. Really, she should not have come, and we are glad she is leaving early. You do not worry about her, Mr. Lo. She is a sideline. We look inward, we reject the insane plans of the previous administration. Would you like to see the new oil-rich strains of Chlorella we use?”
Ben Lo smiled diplomatically. “It would be very interesting.”
There had been a change of government, after the war. It had been less violent and more serious than a revolution, more like a change of climate, or of religion. Before the Quiet War (that was what it was called on Earth, for although tens of thousands had died in the war, none had died on Earth), Proteus had been loosely allied with, but not committed to, an amorphous group which wanted to exploit the outer reaches of the solar system, beyond Pluto’s orbit; after the war, Proteus dropped its expansionist plans and sought to reestablish links with the trading communities of Earth.
Avernus had been on the losing side of the change in political climate. Brought in by the previous regime because of her skills in gengeneering vacuum organisms, she found herself sidelined and ostracized, her research group disbanded and replaced by government cadres, funds for her research suddenly diverted to new projects. But her contract bound her to Proteus for the next ten years, and the new government refused to release her. She had developed several important new dendrimers, light-harvesting molecules used in artificial photosynthesis, and established several potentially valuable genelines, including a novel form of photosynthesis based on a sulphur-spring Chloroflexus bacterium. The government wanted to license them, but to do that it had to keep Avernus under contract, even if it would not allow her to work.
Avernus wanted to escape, and Ben Lo was there to help her. The Pacific Community had plenty of uses for vacuum organisms – there was the whole of the Moon to use as a garden, to begin with – and was prepared to overlook Avernus’s political stance in exchange for her expertise and her knowledge.
He was beginning to remember more and more, but there was still so much he didn’t know. He supposed that the knowledge had been buried, and would flower in due course. He tried not to worry about it.
Meanwhile, the meetings of the trade delegation and Elfhame’s industrial executive finally began. Ben Lo spent most of the next ten days in a closed room dickering with Parliamentary speakers on the Trade Committee over marginal rates for exotic organics. When the meetings were finally over, he slept for three hours and then, still logy from lack of sleep but filled with excess energy, went body surfing at the black beach at the North End. It was the first time he had managed to evade Marla. She had been as exhausted as he had been by the rounds of negotiations, and he had promised that he would sleep all day so that she could get some rest.
The surf was tremendous, huge smooth slow glassy swells falling from thirty meters to batter the soft, sugary black sand with giant’s paws. The air was full of spinning globs of water, and so hazed with spray, like a rain of foamy flowers, that it was necessary to wear a filtermask. It was what the whole lake would be like, without its monomolecular membrane.
Ben Lo had thought he would still have an aptitude for body surfing, because he’d done so much of it when he had been living in Los Angeles, before his movie career really took off. But he was as helpless as a kitten in the swells, his boogie board turning turtle as often as not, and twice he was caught in the undertow. The second time, a pale naked giantess got an arm around his chest and hauled him up onto dry sand.
After he hawked up a couple of lungs-full of fresh water, he managed to gasp his thanks. The woman smiled. She had black hair in a bristle cut, and startlingly green eyes. She was very tall and very thin, and completely naked. She said, “At last you are away from that revisionist bitch.”
Ben Lo sat up, abruptly conscious, in the presence of this young naked giantess, of his own nakedness. “Ah. You are one of Avernus’s – ”
The woman walked away with her boogie board under her arm, pale buttocks flexing. The spy unclipped the ankle line that tethered him to his rented board, bounded up the beach in two leaps, pulled on his shorts, and followed.
Sometime later, he was standing in the middle of a vast red-lit room at blood heat and what felt like a hundred percent humidity. Racks of large-leaved plants receded into infinity; those nearest him towered high above, forming a living green wall. His arm stung, and the tall young woman, naked under a green gown open down the front, but masked and wearing disposable gloves, deftly caught the glob of expressed blood – his blood – in a capillary straw, took a disc of skin from his forearm with a spring-loaded punch, sprayed the wound with sealant and went off with her samples.
A necessary precaution, the old woman said. Avernus. He remembered now. Or at least could picture it. Taking a ski lift all the way to the top. Through a tunnel lined with tall plastic bags in which green Chlorella cultures bubbled under lights strobing in fifty millisecond pulses. Another attack of memory loss – they seemed to be increasing in frequency! Stress, he told himself.
“Of all the people I could identify,” Avernus said, “they had to send you.”
“Ask me anything,” Ben Lo said, although he wasn’t sure that he recalled very much of their brief marriage.
“I mean identify genetically. We exchanged strands of hair in amber, do you remember? I kept mine. It was mounted in a ring.”
“I didn’t think that you were sentimental.”
“It was my idea, and I did it with all my husbands. It reminded me of what I once was.”
“My wife.”
“An idiot.”
“I must get back to the hotel soon. If they find out I’ve been wandering around without my escort, they’ll start to suspect.”
“Good. Let them worry. What can they do? Arrest me? Arrest you?”
“I have diplomatic immunity.”
Avernus laughed. “Ben, Ben, you always were so status-conscious. That’s why I left. I was just another thing you’d collected. A trophy, like your Porsche, or your Picasso.”
He didn’t remember.
“It wasn’t a very good Picasso. One of his fakes – do you know that story?”
“I suppose I sold it.”
The young woman in the green gown came back. “A positive match,” she said. “Probability of a negative identity point oh oh one or less. But he is doped up with immunosuppressants and testosterone.”
“The treatment,” the spy said glibly. “Is this where you do your research?”
“Of course not. They certainly would notice if you turned up there. This is one of the pharm farms. They grow tobacco here, with human genes inserted to make various immunoglobulins. They took away my people, Ben, and replaced them with spies. Ludmilla is one of my original team. They put her to drilling new agricultural tunnels.”
“We are alone here,” Ludmilla said.
“Or you would have made your own arrangements.”
“I hate being dependent on people. Especially from Earth, if you’ll forgive me. And especially you. Are the others in your trade delegation . . . ?”
“Just a cover,” the spy said. “They know nothing. They are looking forward to your arrival in Tycho. The laboratory is ready to be fitted out to your specifications.”
“I swore I’d never go back, but they are fools here. They stand on the edge of greatness, the next big push, and they turn their backs on it and burrow into the ice like maggots.”
The spy took her hands in his. Her skin was loose on her bones, and dry and cold despite the humid heat of the hydroponic greenhouse. He said, “Are you ready? Truly ready?”
She did not pull away. “I have said so. I will submit to any test, if it makes your masters happy. Ben, you are exactly as I remember you. It is very strange.”
“The treatments are very good now. You must use one.”
“Don’t think I haven’t, although not as radical as yours. I like to show my age. You could shrivel up like a Struldbrugg, and I don’t have to worry about that, at least. That skin color, though. Is it a f
ashion?”
“I was Othello, once. Don’t you like it?” Under the red lights his skin gleamed with an ebony luster.
“I always thought you’d make a good Iago, if only you had been clever enough. I asked for someone I knew, and they sent you. It almost makes me want to distrust them.”
“We were young, then.” He was trying to remember, searching her face. Well, it was two hundred years ago. Still, he felt as if he trembled at a great brink, and a tremendous feeling of nostalgia for what he could not remember swept through him. Tears grew like big lenses over his eyes and he brushed them into the air and apologized.
“I am here to do a job,” he said, and said it as much for his benefit as hers.
Avernus said, “Be honest, Ben. You hardly remember anything.”
“Well, it was a long time ago.” But he did not feel relieved at this admission. The past was gone. No more than pictures, no longer a part of him.
Avernus said, “When we got married, I was in love, and a fool. It was in the Wayfarer’s Chapel, do you remember? Hot and dry, with a Santa Ana blowing, and Channel Five’s news helicopter hovering overhead. You were already famous, and two years later you were so famous I no longer recognized you.”
They talked a little while about his career. The acting, the successful terms as state senator, the unsuccessful term as congressman, the fortune he had made in land deals after the partition of the USA, his semi-retirement in the upper house of the Pacific Community parliament. It was a little like an interrogation, but he didn’t mind it. At least he knew this story well.
The tall young woman, Ludmilla, took him back to the hotel. It seemed natural that she should stay for a drink, and then that they should make love, with a languor and then an urgency that surprised him, although he had been told that restoration of his testosterone levels would sometimes cause emotional or physical cruxes that would require resolution. Ben Lo had made love in microgravity many times, but never before with someone who had been born to it. Afterward, Ludmilla rose up from the bed and moved gracefully about the room, dipping and turning as she pulled on her scanty clothes.
The Mammoth Book of the Best of Best New SF Page 68
