Offspring

by Steven Harper

  “Nope.”

  “Good. Listen—don’t agree to anything quite yet.”

  “Why not? I could use the money, Kendi. My stipend doesn’t go as far as it used to these days, if you know what I mean.”

  Kendi knew what she meant. Gretchen had been Silenced during the Despair. It flashed across Kendi’s mind to offer her some money to tide her over, an idea he just as quickly discarded. Such an offer would only transform Gretchen from a proud woman into an angry one.

  “Just hold off a few more days,” Kendi said instead. “It’ll be worth your while, I promise.”

  Gretchen eyed him suspiciously from the viewscreen. “All right,” she said at last. “A few more days. And you owe me dinner. One just like Ara used to buy.”

  “Done,” Kendi grinned. “I’ll catch you later, then.”

  They signed off. Kendi retrieved the Ben hologram, sat down at his desk, and searched his computer for a single sound file. He activated it, and the soft sound of a computer alert chimed through the room.

  “Father Kendi,” Kendi said, pretending to answer a call that came in over his earpiece instead of on the viewscreen. He paused. “Hey, love. Yeah, I’ll probably be home early. Look, I’m glad you called. I’ve been looking at the cost of adding a nursery, and I’m thinking we should accept that offer from Lightspeed Games. It’ll more than pay for the new room, and they’ll get us the money quick. Heaven knows we need the cash. Yeah. Okay, I’ll see you in a while.”

  He tapped his earpiece again, this time for real. “Tel Brace.”

  Brace came on almost immediately. Kendi could have called him on the viewscreen, but he didn’t feel like seeing the man’s grinning face.

  “What can I do for you, Father?” Brace asked in Kendi’s ear, and Kendi imagined him rubbing his hands together in anticipation of a multi-million freemark contract.

  “Mr. Brace, I’ve given your offer considerable thought, and I’d like to discuss it in more detail. Could we meet in my office at, say, two o’clock?”

  “Let me check my appointments.” Brace made a small clucking noise with his tongue. “I’m afraid two doesn’t work for me. Three?”

  “Three is fine,” Kendi agreed. “I’ll see you then.”

  Kendi disconnected and gave Brace a few more flim-flam points for controlling the time of the meeting and thereby reducing Kendi from autocrat to supplicant. The extra hour was supposed to give Kendi time to worry something had gone wrong with the deal.

  A knock sounded at the door and Kendi shouted permission to enter. A man and a woman came in. The woman was possessed of a head-turning beauty, with fine features and wide, dark eyes. The man bore a strong resemblance to Kendi. His body was a little thicker and gray streaked his hair, but anyone seeing them together would have known they were related. Keith and Martina Weaver, Kendi’s older brother and younger sister.

  “Keith needs a change of scene,” Martina announced, “so we’re kidnapping you for an early lunch.”

  “I don’t need a change of scene,” Keith muttered. “I’m fine.”

  “People who sit around in dark rooms all day don’t get to say they’re fine,” Martina said firmly. “I’ve lived on Bellerophon for three weeks now, and I’ve yet to have eaten in a Ched-Balaar restaurant. How about you show us one, Kendi?”

  “Sure.” Kendi pushed the Ben hologram into a drawer. “I know just the place.”

  Martina linked arms with Keith and all but dragged him out of Kendi’s office. Kendi followed, watching Keith’s slumping posture from behind. Kendi pursed his lips. He didn’t like this development with Keith. Kendi, Ben, and a team of Children had yanked Keith and Martina out of enslavement to a strange cult on SA Station just three weeks ago. Keith had come out of it ebullient and happy, but his mood had lately shifted to gloom and depression. He resolutely refused to see a counselor, and in any case the monastery’s psych people were overworked treating Silenced Children traumatized by the Despair. People who had retained their Silence, as Keith had, rated low priority.

  Outside the office building, clouds drew a low gray curtain across the sky and the air was damp. Martina maintained pointedly happy chatter. Keith remained quiet. Kendi led the way. The staircase they were descending opened onto a wide platform at the bottom, where another group of people were demonstrating. Placards and holograms bobbed up and down. About half were in the curved, swooping script of the Ched-Balaar. Ched-Pirasku—the Best Choice. Moderation in All Things and the Governorship. Our Ally Ched-pirasku. No Radicals! No Liberals! Just Ched-pirasku!

  A Ched-Balaar with dark, almost black fur had straightened her neck, raising her head high above the crowd. Her teeth chattered like a xylophone.

  “What’s she saying?” Martina asked.

  A ‘The Federals and the Unionists want to create division and battle among our people,’ “ Kendi translated. A ‘They do not seek a middle ground for all to stand on. We can mine the world’s treasures, but we do not have to strip the earth to do it. Carefully regulated mining will create jobs without destroying the environment our ancestors worked so hard to protect. However, we will also have to regulate the factories and manufacturing industries that will use the products of the new mines. Ched-Pirasku is prepared to address those challenges with compassion and forethought for all.’ “ Kendi paused. “She’s exaggerating Grandma’s position. Grandma doesn’t advocate no mining at all—she thinks we need to be careful. I agree with her. Remember what Australia was like?”

  “The Real People were enslaved by miners looking for opals and ore,” Martina said as if reciting a long-ago lesson. “Under mutant control, the Outback became a desert and the Real People were forced to eat meat for the first time. Do you think that could happen here?”

  “Not the enslavement,” Kendi said firmly. “We don’t buy and sell people on Bellerophon. But the environmental disasters—that’s something else entirely.”

  A cheer rose from the crowd and the signs waved wildly.

  “These people sure go in for their demonstrations and marches,” Keith observed. “You can’t run to the corner store without tripping over one.”

  Kendi laughed. “You’ve got the right of that. This is the first time Bellerophon has had free elections for several hundred years, though. Before that, we were a member of the Independence Confederation under the rule of Empress Kalii. The Confederation appointed local government but otherwise let us have our head. The Children of Irfan were a lucrative source of income for the Confederation, and her imperial majesty was smart enough not to upset the goose that laid all those golden eggs. Now, though—we’re starting our own government practically from scratch. Everyone gets to voice an opinion, and they do.”

  “Especially since so many people don’t have jobs to keep them busy,” Keith said cynically.

  They skirted the demonstration and continued on their way. A brisk stroll over several walkways and down two flights of stairs took them to the Ched-Balaar restaurant. It was, like most Treetown structures, a wooden building built on a platform amid talltree branches. A balcony set with tables ringed the second floor. None were occupied—it was still early for lunch. The name on the sign said in graceful Ched-Balaar script, Delectibles of the Open Blossom. Strange and delicious smells wafted by.

  “What do the Ched-Balaar eat?” Keith said dubiously.

  “You’ll like it,” Kendi promised.

  “That means it’s going to be disgusting.”

  “Stop being such a baby,” Martina said. “Let’s go in.”

  The interior was dark and damp. Moss covered the floor in a thick green carpet. More tables were scattered about, and an artificial waterfall rushed down one wall. The ceiling was high, to accommodate Ched-Balaar height. Smells of hot oil, sharp spices, and cooking meat salted the air. A Ched-Balaar with pale, silvery fur and a red head cloth turned to greet them.

  “Father Kendi,” chattered the Ched-Balaar. “I have the perfect table for you. Who are your friends?”

  Kendi p
aused to translate for his family, then said, “Ched-Mulooth, meet my brother and sister, Keith and Martina Weaver. They’re new to Bellerophon.”

  Ched-Mulooth dipped his head. His movements were slow and careful. “It is a fine thing to meet the family of the great Father Kendi Weaver. Please come this way.”

  He led them past a series of tables too high for humans to use comfortably. There were no chairs. A pair of female Ched-Balaar occupied one table, sitting on their haunches like dogs or cats. Two wide troughs containing purple liquid rested on the table, and one of the Ched-Balaar dipped her wide lower jaw into it to drink. A delicate slurping sound accompanied the gesture. The other Ched-Balaar glanced at Kendi as he passed, then turned back to her companion.

  In the rear of the restaurant was a scattering of human-sized tables and two human-sized booths. Ched-Mulooth ushered them toward one of the latter and stood solicitously by as the Weavers seated themselves.

  “The world will provide,” Ched-Mulooth said, and withdrew.

  “It’s hard to tell,” Martina said, “but I get the feeling that he’s pretty old.”

  “Ched-Mulooth? Yeah, he’s older than Irfan.” The comparison made Kendi think of Ben, and he shifted uncomfortably in the booth. “He’s a great host. I don’t think he’s cooking much these days anymore, though.”

  “So what do we order?” Keith asked.

  “We don’t. The Ched-Balaar believe that the world will provide, and asking for specifics is rude. It’s actually Ched-Mulooth’s job to anticipate what we’ll like and serve it. He’s really good at that, which is why I brought us here.”

  “Apology,” chattered a new voice. “Are you Father Kendi Weaver?” One of the Ched-Balaar they had passed earlier was standing near the table.

  “That’s me,” Kendi replied. Martina and Keith looked lost, so Kendi gave a quick translation. “What can I do for you?”

  She thrust a computer pad at him. “Your handprint?”

  Kendi laid his hand on the pad, then scribbled his initials at the bottom with a stylus. The Ched-Balaar bobbed her head.

  “My gratitude, both for your handprint and for your deeds.” And she left.

  “Does that happen to you a lot?” Martina asked.

  “Yeah,” Kendi said in a rueful voice. “She was polite, at least.”

  More people, both Ched-Balaar and human, were filling the restaurant around them. The mossy floor muffled both human voices and Ched-Balaar tooth-talk. Ched-Mulooth reappeared and set three troughs on the table, smaller versions of those used by the Ched-Balaar. A shiny purple liquid glimmered in each.

  “You don’t have to slurp,” Kendi said, hoisting his trough and taking a drink. Martina and Keith followed suit. The light wine was sweet, with a distinct fruity aftertaste.

  “It’s wonderful,” Martina said. “Isn’t it wonderful, Keith?”

  “It’s okay,” Keith muttered.

  Kendi tightened his jaw. He remembered his older brother as serious but not morose. When they were children, all three of them had invented games that transformed the grimy streets of Sydney into pirate coves, opal caves, and space ships. Keith had been the best at inventing new settings, pretending to explore new things. But fifteen years of slavery had taken their toll.

  And then there was the slaver named Feder. Just after their capture, the Weaver family had spent several days on a slave ship, and Feder had taken a...liking to Keith. Kendi had only been twelve at the time, but he still remembered the helpless rage he had felt every time Feder came to their cell and took Keith away, returning him, stone-faced and mute, several hours later.

  Slavery, abuse, the Despair, Silent Acquisitions—was it any wonder Keith had problems?

  “Aren’t you Father Kendi Weaver?” This time the speaker was human, a young man. Kendi signed an autograph and turned back to his siblings.

  “Is it going to be like this all through lunch?” Martina asked.

  “Some days are worse than others,” Kendi said. “Ben got our address removed from the public databases, or we’d probably deal with it at home, too. My work address is public information, though, and I get deluged with messages there.”

  Ched-Mulooth set three logs on the table. Fragrant steam rose in delicate, spicy-smelling tendrils from gaps in the bark, and pale mushrooms poked up like soggy miniature umbrellas. Bits of wet, rotten wood showered the table. Ched-Mulooth withdrew. Keith stared at the logs. Martina cocked her head.

  “Explain,” she said.

  “Like this,” Kendi said. He ripped a piece of wood away. Large red grubs glistened inside. Kendi plucked one out—it was almost hot enough to singe his fingers—and popped it into his mouth. It was juicy and meaty, like a bite of tender steak with an outer skin that broke with a slight crunch. Martina grinned.

  “You used to hate grubs in the Outback,” she said, tearing open her own log and selecting a blood-red specimen. “What changed?”

  “The Ched-Balaar are better cooks.”

  “Why do they eat this stuff?” Keith said. He hadn’t touched his own log.

  “Look at their feet,” Kendi replied. “They evolved tearing stuff apart and digging things up. The Ched-Balaar are ominivores, like humans, but their eating habits are more...bear-like than monkey-like.”

  “Eat your grubs, Keith,” Martina said, downing one of her own. “They’re good.”

  “You’re meant to eat the mushrooms, too,” Kendi put in. “Ched-Balaar salad.”

  “Maybe I could just ask for a cheese sandwich,” Keith said.

  Martina made a face. “A chunk of half-rotten milk stuck between two slabs of yeast-infected seed powder? Ick!”

  At that, Keith managed a smile, though to Kendi’s eye it looked forced. He reluctantly ripped out a piece of wood, selected a steaming slug, and stared at for a long moment. Then he ate it.

  “It’s not half bad,” Keith admitted grudgingly. “Could use some salt.”

  “Aren’t you Father Kendi Weaver?”

  Kendi signed another autograph and turned back to Martina and Keith. “So how are you two getting along with your teachers?”

  “It’s annoying,” Martina said, delicately licking a shred of slug from her upper lip. “I know how to operate in the Dream, thank you very much, and don’t need help with it. I can possess people and I can whisper from the Dream and my short-term recall is already perfect. But Mother Bess keeps trying to make me do memory exercises. Like I said—annoying.”

  “Mother Bess was Silenced, wasn’t she?” Kendi asked.

  Martina nodded. “It’s why I haven’t really rebelled against her. She looks so...unhappy all the time.”

  “I know what you mean,” Kendi said. “All life, I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose the Dream.”

  “I can barely reach it,” Keith said. “And I can’t stay in for very long. It’s like having a hand cut off. Or having palsy. I can still do stuff, but I can’t do it well.”

  “That’s exactly it,” Martina said. “All life, I—”

  “Why do you talk like that?” Keith snapped. A ‘All life’ and ‘Real People’ and all that Outback shit?”

  Martina blinked at him. After a pause, Kendi said, “It’s who we—who I am. The Real People got me through being a slave and losing Mom. They’re how I found the Dream.”

  “You’re angry at the Real People,” Martina said. “Keith, that’s all r—”

  “I don’t need you to tell me what’s all right and what’s not,” Keith snarled. Then he sighed. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m not good company.”

  He lapsed into silence again and a Ched-Balaar approached the table. “You are Father Kendi Weaver, true?”

  Martina bravely tried to keep conversation going for the rest of lunch. Keith didn’t speak, and Kendi couldn’t bring himself to give more than one- or two-word answers. This wasn’t how he’d imagined it. Throughout three years of slavery and twelve years with the Children of Irfan, he had dreamed of finding his family again, sitting with them a
t a meal just like this one. Kendi had fantasized about laughing together, telling stories, even having childish squabbles. He hadn’t ever thought it would be like this.

  “Aren’t you Father Kendi Weaver?”

  Kendi signed, then stood up. “Let’s go. I’ve got stuff to do.”

  They exited the restaurant straight into a crowd of people. The wide platform that made up the “street” in this part of Treetown groaned with humans and Ched-Balaar. A Ched-Balaar with designs shaved into her body fur stood head and shoulders above the crowd next to a sandy-haired man.

  “Not another one,” Keith complained. “This is getting stupid.”

  “It’s not a demonstration,” Kendi said with groan. “It’s a press conference. For him.”

  A...these times of economic hardship,” the man said in a voice that carried well above the crowd, “we need to pull back, hunker down, and find our strengths as a people. This is not a time to look outward. It is a time to look inward. Our tax money should be spent on job programs for our people, not on arms programs for our military. We Federals firmly believe that the people come first.”

  When he fell silent, the crowd exploded into questions like an erupting volcano. “Mr. Foxglove, how long do you think the post-Despair depression will last?” “Mr. Foxglove, what will be your first act if you win the governorship?” “Mr. Foxglove, do you think the High Court will rule in favor of releasing mining restrictions in your district?” “Mr. Foxglove—” “Mr. Foxglove—” “Mr. Foxglove—”

  “I have every confidence,” Foxglove said, and the reporters fell instantly silent, “that the High Court will make a fair and just ruling to relieve the mining restrictions in the Othertown district. The reasons for the restrictions were wise nine hundred years ago, but times have changed. We can now mine the resources of this planet without harming our environment and in the bargain provide our people with much-needed jobs.”

  “Mr. Foxglove, what cutbacks to the military are you proposing?” shouted another reporter before the others could begin their frenzy.

  “I’m not proposing a cutback,” Foxglove said. “I’m proposing a freeze. The Federalist Party has said it before, and I’m saying it again: we don’t need more ships. We need more jobs. We don’t need more soldiers. We need more financial security. My proposal would save our government over nine hundred million freemarks without cutting jobs within the military itself.”