Great North Road (112 page)

As Dr. Coniff tended to Paresh she huddled with the others in a semicircle, anxiously awaiting a verdict. Behind her goggles her eyes were closed as her grid displayed the image for her to review. Thousands of hair-thin filaments flopped out of the torn polymer sheath like a root system at the base of a plant. They looked ragged, as well they might after breaking under such a strain. But not all of them; more than half ended neatly together. Some kind of blade had sliced through the cable.

It left her with two questions. When? And what was the nature of the blade? One of five that were arranged in a finger array?

“Incoming,” Angela announced over a link to Tropic-2. Raddon opened the rear door as Angela knocked snow from her boots and gaiters on the bodywork. Then she was inside and settling into the seat.

“How is he?” Forster asked, twisting around in the driver’s seat.

Angela pulled her balaclava off and started unzipping the front of her parka as the cab’s heater blew warm air around them. “Lucky, so the doc said. The armor saved him. He’s got some broken ribs and the arm. They’re going to monitor him to make sure his heart and lungs are okay. And that’s about it. Man, he looks like one giant bruise.”

Rebka pulled her own balaclava off. “That’s good news.”

“Yeah. Thanks. The dumb ass had me worried for a minute, there.”

“Elston said we’re resting up for a couple of hours,” Raddon said. “He’s sent Darwin to help Gillian drive truck 2.”

“We should shove a meal in the microwave,” Rebka said. “It’ll be nice to eat one while we’re sitting still. I might not cover myself in food for once.” She made herself busy, keeping in the Madeleine persona prominent as she put their packets in the microwave and generally ran through the bubbly short-order-waitress routine. The Tropic’s cabin was soon filled with the smell of pepperoni pizza and hot chocolate, adding some small amount of cheer to the somber mood.

Even her own optimism was growing shaky now. If they didn’t find the tributary soon, then they would have to turn back. The prospect of waiting for rescue at Wukang was a bleak one. Right up until the tow cable sabotage she’d been certain she could complete the mission, and capture the creature—whatever it was. It would be tough, she’d always known that, but the systems she’d brought with her from Jupiter instilled a level of confidence that she was now acknowledging might be misplaced. But then no one could have foreseen events unfurling in the disastrous way they had since she arrived on St. Libra. Not even Constantine, who had spent two decades preparing. The constant attrition of personnel had unnerved her as it had everyone in the convoy. Smartmicrobes she’d placed strategically among the vehicles had died in the blizzards and subzero temperatures. The smart programs she’d infiltrated into the convoy’s net had been reduced to ghosts of their former selves as the hardware failed and degraded. She was still fairly sure she would be victorious in any one-on-one combat. However, engineering that encounter was becoming increasingly unlikely. Like everyone, she had no idea where the damn thing concealed itself. It really did emerge from nowhere, which meant that while her metamolecule armor was inactive she was as vulnerable as anyone else. Her only alternative was to become more overt in her efforts, potentially pitting her against everyone else. It may yet have to come to that.

She realized her hand had crept up her chest to touch the vial she wore around her neck. “To help ground you,” Constantine had said when he gave it to her. Even now she was impressed by how prophetic those words had turned out.

*

Rebka had woken up early that day. All smiles and excitement as the habitat axle light rings pumped up to full intensity, and the colorful jungle birds greeted its fast dawn with a chorus of squawking. She pushed back the thin duvet and sat up on the edge of the bed, stretching and yawning.

“Clear the window,” she told her e-i. The curving wall in front of her turned from a purple haze to a simple window looking out across the habitat. Two of the house’s surrounding circle of palm trees blocked her view in the center and to the right, their long leaf crowns sagging down to allow the tips to rub against the top of the glass. The third palm, the one on the left, had died about a year ago, leaving a tall withered stem that was already decaying, hosting all manner of interesting orange and topaz fungi. Dad hadn’t yet gotten around to organizing a replacement. He and Mum were still arguing over what to plant; both agreed they weren’t having anything so big so close to the house again. Rebka suspected the argument never would be finished.

She slowly walked across her room, sliding her feet around the clothes and dirty underwear and sports equipment and cups and empty bottles and bits of the neumanoics kit from her year-ten science project and floform-stone sculptures and sketch pads and brushes and makeup boxes and …

Her cheeks puffed out in mild dismay at the maze of crap smothering the carpet. Maybe she ought to clear up sometime. Mum had given up nagging years ago, but refused to help, saying she had to take responsibility for her own life. Good old Mum, always banging on about being a proper citizen.

And today I am.

One of the drawers had some fresh knickers and a bra. And her jeans from yesterday—and a few days prior—were still relatively clean. There were three washed and pressed T-shirts in the cage basket she’d brought back from the utility room recently. She chose the orange one, with flowers embroidered on the cap sleeves.

“Give me a mirror,” she told her e-i. A section of the window turned perfect silver, and she studied herself critically. Tall, which was okay thanks to the long legs; blond hair that was dark enough to verge on chestnut, but was easy to dye, and still had pink and purple tips, with a single zombie green forelock stripe; long face, pretty enough even with a thin nose, though she still considered it belonged to someone a good two years younger. Rebka frowned, peering forward, then let out a sigh of exasperation. To celebrate that youthfulness, her chin had erupted a couple of new spots overnight. She squared her shoulders and hustled her bra up into a better place. Grinning. Dad always rolled his eyes in not-quite-mock-disapproval at the scoop necks she favored.

She went into the tiny en suite bathroom. Sloshed some dentjel around her mouth and spat it out. Washed her face carefully with the cleanser, then rummaged through packets to find some sup patches which she applied over the spots. Spots. Today of all days! Eyeliner, purple and gold. Brush the hair into shape—not enough time for a shower and shampoo now. Rub scent on strategically. And she was ready for whatever the grand day threw at her.

Both her parents were waiting for her at the breakfast bar. The ground floor’s archway windows were fully open, allowing the morning air to gust gently into the house. It was fresh with the humidity of the overnight mist that atmospheric services squirted into the habitat every day between one and four in the morning. Birds flittered about through the trees, and geckos were skittering up the house walls.

Thinking about it, Rebka realized life couldn’t be much better than this. Perhaps she did have a lot to be thankful for. And maybe she should have expressed a little more gratitude over the years. The surge of emotion caught her by surprise, and she swallowed hard, especially when she saw Mum and Dad both fighting to hide their own pride and sorrow.

Then the pair of them were smiling broadly, holding out their hands and chorusing: “Happy birthday, darling.”

Rebka hugged them, not really caring that her eyes were all watering up. “I love you,” she squeaked out.

They’d prepared her favorite breakfast. Sweet bacon and a pile of pancakes with strawberries, dussulpears and cream, and maple syrup. A tall glass of mango and cranberry juice poured over crushed ice. Farmhouse loaf toast with thick-cut blood orange marmalade.

“I can’t eat all this,” she protested weakly as they all sat at the big patio table.

Dad grinned and popped a Champagne bottle cork, pouring the chilly fizz into their juice glasses. “Best way to start today,” he promised. “You’re only going to be eighteen once.”

Through her happy giggles she saw the strange look her parents exchanged, and wrote it off to the fact that she’d be moving out soon. Her very own apartment in the new habitat shell, twice the length of this one with a lake that almost qualified as a sea it was so large. She’d even been considering asking for one of those mobile home capsules that people were starting to use, but wasn’t sure if that was just a fashion statement. Either way, she’d be independent, like Raul and Krista had become after they reached their majority. This house would be very big for her parents after that, she thought. Maybe that’s why things like decisions on replacement trees were being put off. Although she couldn’t imagine home without them in it.

They all touched their glasses in salute, then sipped the fortified juice.

“Thank you both,” she said, still all teary. “Look, I know I’ve not been the best daughter ever. And—”

“Hey, none of that,” her father said, putting his arm around her. “I don’t want you to spoil your present opening. I’ve been planning mine for months.”

Despite her rampaging emotions, Rebka was abruptly curious. “Oh?”

He reached under the table and produced what looked like a slim rectangular box, wrapped in blue-and-silver paper with a pink ribbon around it. Rebka took it, even more intrigued now she felt how heavy it was.

“Go on!” her father urged, as eager as her.

She pulled the ribbon’s bow and unwrapped the paper. The object inside puzzled her for a moment—she’d never actually held one before—then realization dawned. “A book!” she exclaimed. When she turned it over, the title was printed in gold leaf:
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
. Now she really did cry: It had been her favorite for so many years growing up. Such weird incredible adventures, even to her, a girl living in a space habitat orbiting Jupiter. Or perhaps especially here, the strangeness of Alice’s travels was easy to relate to. “Thank you, Daddy.” She folded her arms around him, hugging tightly.

“It’s not a first edition or anything,” he said gruffly. “But it is twentieth century. I got Clayton to pick it up when he was on Earth last.”

“It’s lovely.”

Her mother held out a much smaller box of black velvet. It contained a plain gold ring. “My grandmother’s wedding ring,” she explained. “I just want you to always know and understand you are truly family.”

As she embraced her mother, Rebka was worried she was going to spend the whole day in tears, albeit happy ones.

Eventually—ring on her finger where she could admire it, book on the table waiting to be read—she tucked into the pile of pancakes.

“Raul and Krista are coming over for lunch,” her father said. “Just the family. A quiet time before tonight’s party.”

Rebka grinned wolfishly at that. She’d spent months planning tonight’s event with all her friends.

“Do you know what you’re wearing yet?” her mother asked.

“Uh, no.”

“We could go through some catalogs together, choose something to print out.”

“Yes, please. That would be lovely.”

Her father cleared his throat. “You haven’t forgotten what you have to do this morning, have you?”

“No! Go and see Constantine.”

“Good.”

“What does he talk about? Raul and Krista would never say. It’s all very mysterious, which is stupid.”

“He just asks you what you want to do with your life, to make sure you’re happy here. After all, we can’t really afford malcontents in something as fragile as a habitat.”

“Wow, that’s going to be boring.”

“It probably is, dear,” her mother said primly. “But try not to show it. After all, it is his habitat.”

“What’s he going to do if I tell him I hate it—kick me off?”

Her father’s face fell into his hands.

Rebka pressed her lips together in self-censure. Dad was so easy to wind up. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll behave. Kiss-promise.”

“Well I suppose there’s a first time for everything,” he countered.

Rebka’s e-i directed her up the side of the habitat shell into the low-gravity regions. She’d never quite forgiven herself for not enjoying zero-g. It looked such fun: flying, somersaulting with more grace than a ballerina gymnast, bouncing off the walls like a perpetual motion squash ball, and there were always the awesome rumors of free-fall sex, which was supposed to be amazing. But her inner ears disapproved in a major way, resulting in more than one instance of projectile vomiting. Even her notoriously stubborn persistence had stalled from trying to “acclimatize” after the fifth time her mother made her wash all her own clothes and apologize in person to everyone else in the axis gym.

Now the lift that ran all the way up to the axis stopped seven hundred meters above the curving floor at the one-third-gravity level. She pushed off in a gentle walk, keenly aware of inertia as she glided in long arcs between her feet touching the corridor floor. There were big hand hoops on the walls every couple of meters, to grab when you needed to slow, stop, or change direction at a junction. She kept her arms out, ready to seize one just in case. So far her stomach was holding out.

The door her e-i delivered her to didn’t seem any different from all the others in this section, which according to the overlay blueprint was mostly used for habitat maintenance engineering. It slid open and she glide-walked into the darkened room beyond.

The room was a lot bigger than she was expecting, like a small docking hangar with a curving ceiling ten meters above her. There were weird structures spaced throughout it that resembled giant strands of DNA, but with multiple helixes that had warped and bloated, made out of a substance that approximated pearl. The multiple curving ridges of varying sizes that interlocked all over them in seemingly random patterns bestowed the appearance of a sea creature’s shell, convincing her they were living configurations rather than technological. It was hard to tell because they were phasing in and out of spacetime; random sections would dematerialize to sketch their original profile with sharp emerald and orange laserlight sparkles, as if photons were interchanging with atoms. Their haze made peering through the gloom of the chamber difficult.