Planetfall (20 page)

He folds his arms. “No. I'm not leaving until we make some progress. Is everywhere in the house like this?”

I nod and the way his eyes widen makes my cheeks flush with shame again.

“And you printed all of this . . . over what, twenty years?”

“Not all of it. Some of it I brought with me from Earth. Some of it I printed and the rest is . . . recycled.”

“I don't understand. I thought the Masher does that.”

I fiddle with the edge of the sling. “People throw too much away. They don't fix things. I . . . I save them from the Masher.”

“You can go inside it?”

“It's a big room; all the machinery has to be accessible. I'm the only one who goes down there. No one else thinks about it and they just chuck stuff down the chute without even bothering to try to—”

“But I thought that was what they were supposed to do. You told me that all the base materials for the printers are served by the communal feeds and they get filled back up again each time someone recycles something.” He gestures at one of the piles closest to him. “This should have been recycled by the Masher. Then the stocks wouldn't be low. Or am I missing something?”

I can't answer. It's all I can do to stop myself pushing him back toward the tunnel. I turn away and head toward the living room doorway, not wanting to see his face or let him see mine.

“And how can it work . . . with the levels, I mean,” he asks,
following me. “Surely someone has noticed that there isn't enough stuff going back into the feeds?”

I can hear more things cracking beneath his shoes. “You're breaking my stuff!” I yell and he stops again.

“If it's fragile and precious, why is it on the floor?” he shouts back. “There's broken shit everywhere, Ren—look at it! It's trash and it needs to go back to the feeds.”

My teeth are chattering and there are waves of shivering radiating out from my core. I keep my back turned to him and stare at the printer ahead, trying to focus on anything but him.

“You're faking the feed levels, aren't you?” His voice is quiet again. “You know how it all works—you built it . . . That's why no one knows what you're doing.”

It's impossible to do anything but stand there, trembling, holding a lungful of air inside myself as I wait to hear him say that he's going to report what I've been doing to the colony. There's no point denying it—it's obvious.

He sighs loudly. “I'm not going to say anything. If you let me help you.”

“If?” It sounds like a threat.

“Let's . . . let's get started.” I hear him moving again, not far. “Where are your Masher chutes?”

“. . . Covered up.” I damn myself with my own words.

“That's the first job, then. We need access to a chute, so we need to clear the hallway. Is there one in here?”

I go and join him in the hallway again but avoid looking at him. I point to the drift that conceals the nearest chute.

“Jeez . . . We need to take some stuff outside. There's no room in here to—”

“No! Don't be stupid. Everyone will see.”

“Perhaps that would be for the best.”

“Shut up!” I press my temples with my thumb and forefinger,
trying to ease the headache that's building steadily. “We can move things into the living room. There's space there.”

He peers through that doorway and there's the telltale pause as he struggles to take in the sight of it all. “Ren . . . we have very different ideas about space.”

THREE HOURS LATER
the flap covering the Masher chute in the hallway has been uncovered. I'm standing in front of it for the first time in years and Sung-Soo's cheeks are pink with anger.

I'm exhausted, but I'm not going to move. I've seen the way he's tried to make a new pile behind him, ready to throw in the chute as soon as it was accessible. He won't let me look at things properly as we find them, always wanting to rush me. He doesn't understand that I haven't seen some of the things at the bottom of the pile for months—years in some cases. I have to be certain I don't miss the CrawlerCam—easy to do as it's so small—and each object pulled free brings a memory with it. None of it has been suitable for throwing away, and at the start there was no option but to take things into the other room once I checked them. When I saw that pile growing behind him each time I got back to the hallway, I knew his plan. Now he's holding a mug in his left hand and a scarf in his right and he wants to throw them away.

“What is the point of clearing all that stuff if we're not going to use the damn chute!”

“I need those.”

He looks up at the ceiling and makes a guttural moan. “No, you don't, Ren. This is chipped and this is full of holes. You have to throw something away—that's the point!”

“Not those.” I'm standing my ground now. The threat of losing them has tapped a new well of strength inside me. I let him bully me into coming here, but I won't let him throw my stuff away.

“What, then? Show me something I
can
throw away.”

“You're rushing me.”

“It's not difficult. How can you build a house in two days and then look at a pile of garbage and not find one thing to throw out?”

“It's not garbage! How many times do I have to tell you?” My throat is raw and I feel sick. I need another dose of pain meds, but I don't dare leave him alone in here. He doesn't respect my things.

He puts the scarf and mug back on the pile behind him and wipes his face with his sleeve. He looks tired too.

“It's lunchtime,” I say. “Why don't we take a break?”

His scowl is answer enough. “We've been here all morning and all we've done is move one pile of stuff to another room. You can't get to the printer in there now, can you?” When I shake my head, he throws his hands into the air. “That's why we have to start using the chute!”

“I'll go through it in my own time.”

“When? How long have you been telling yourself that?”

“I can't do any of it when you're angry with me!” I've shouted at him so many times today. I never raise my voice usually. This isn't good for me. None of this is. It's turning me into something else.

“I'm . . .” He breathes in deeply and starts again, his voice more calm. “I'm not angry with you. I just don't . . . I don't get it. I don't get how you can be so clever about everything else and so stupid about your house. No—” He pats the air, fearing he's upset me. “That came out wrong. I don't mean stupid. I mean—”

“Mad?” I say for him. “Crazy? Insane, perhaps? That's what you think. Isn't it?”

He doesn't reply. I close my eyes and lean against the wall. I can't remember the last time I saw the floor here. I can't remember the last time I felt at peace. I don't think I ever have on this planet. For a moment, the valley of my belongings feels like it's closing in on me and I'm so painfully aware of how much there is between myself and the door. That tunnel out could collapse at any moment. I could be trapped under it.

I pick up a ball lying at my feet, something thrown into the Masher chute by a parent whose child has got too old for something spongy and pastel colored. I twist, intending to put it in the chute, but then I feel such a crushing wave of sadness for it, for something once so loved now being discarded without thought. My thoughts spin on to this house being empty and me lost within it, nothing to hold me, no cocoon, and all the things I've rescued and loved when no one else wanted them being lost forever.

I press the ball to my chest and then tuck it under the edge of the sling, protecting it from Sung-Soo's glare. “No. There's nothing to throw away here. We're done.”

•   •   •

HE
leaves after that, without saying a word. I sit, resting my head against the chute flap, and cry. I don't know where the tears are coming from, or feel any particular grief or sadness.
It's just the end of hours of terrible tension. I don't know if he's going to try to come back. If he does, I won't let him in. This morning is just more proof that I was right to keep people out.

The ball is uncomfortable, so I pull it out and place it next to me. It was pressing my pendant into my skin. I pluck it out from under my top and then pull the thong over my head. The desire to wear Sung-Soo's gift has been burned away by the day's events.

The carving is so warm it's pleasant to keep held in my palm a while. I take a moment to admire his skill and decide that, once the heat has faded, I'll find a nook for it. It will remind me to keep people at a safe distance. I don't need to keep it that close to me; the lesson is too raw right now to be forgettable.

The heat remains for a good couple of minutes. That material has interesting properties as well as being beautiful. It should be studied. I see a gap in the pile opposite me, about halfway up that side of the hallway valley, and lean over to tuck it in. That's when I spot the CrawlerCam.

I can still access the printer in my kitchen; it just takes a while to get to it. Once I've made and drunk a shake and taken some painkillers, I dig out my tool roll and run a set of tests on the cam to make sure it's fully functional. The logical tests and tweaks I make as a result soothe me.

There are twenty-two hours before the seed ceremony. I can't risk placing the CrawlerCam inside God's city until tonight. It leaves the whole afternoon stretching ahead of me and the anxiety seeps back in without practical tasks to keep it at bay.

I look at the flap covering the chute and then at the tunnel between myself and the door. Is there anything I could bear to part with? I scan the edges, the makeshift walls, the unlikely roof of it. I see a patch of fabric from a dress woven in and
around keepsakes that I wore to Kay's house for dinner. She cooked everything from scratch, based on old recipes saved from her grandmother's archived blog. We made love afterward and lay tangled up in each other and the sheets for hours talking about games and music.

Was I at peace then? Maybe. I think she helped push everything further away. I recall the message she sent last night, her thoughtfulness and the way she let me stay over without any fuss. Should I go to her place tonight? I send her a message letting her know that I'm fine and back home again. I promise to come and see her soon.

A strand of brown wool catches my eye and I remember the doll I rescued. I pluck her from the top of the tunnel and diligently untangle the remainder wool while the printer makes a pair of knitting needles for me. I call up knitting tutorials on the cloud and am filled with the thrill of potential. I ease my arm out of the sling and experiment with keeping my upper arm still and in position while using my hand to knit. As long as I keep my elbow tucked in, there are only occasional twinges. A quick search uncovers a new pattern for wool that can be printed with minimal resource cost and I download it to print while I practice with virtual wool in a gaming platform built to teach newbies.

It absorbs the afternoon and the early evening. I never make anything like this with my hands. I work in solids, metals and ceramics and the creative process is speeded up and distanced by the printers. I'm enthralled by the sight of something clothlike appearing one row at a time beneath the needles. There is an intimacy with this creation that my usual work lacks.

My back and shoulder are aching by the time the doll has a new arm. I feel so much better and so fulfilled by the sight of her whole. I want to show her to Sung-Soo and say, “This
is what I meant!,” but I don't want to open myself up to any more of his judgment. I position her next to my sleeping space so she's the first thing I'll see when I wake up, and after more food and painkillers I clear some of the things cluttering the bed. There's room to lie down now and no need to stay anywhere except here. I can't access the bedroom printer anymore. I'll sort that out another time. Now I need to take the CrawlerCam to God's city and gather some evidence. I'm back on track now. Soon I'll have some answers. No more distractions. No more skulking around the edges of these lies and holy fears. I will learn that city's secret, and when the time is right, I'll take that knowledge and serve it up to the rest of the colony like a beautiful feast that will nourish us all.

WHEN I WAKE
late the next morning, my stream is full of comments and excitement about the seed ceremony and one notification from my CrawlerCam. It's the only one I'm interested in.

It's been swept into that room and has already been recording for two hours, having been programmed to begin as soon as it was moved from the place I left it last night. I resist the desire to open the file and begin analysis, knowing that if I do so I'll miss the ceremony. It will take me longer than usual to get ready. I can't resist setting up a connection between the data from the recording and my visengineering software though, meaning that the next time I review the results, it will have already pulled out things that can be defined as distinct objects and wire-framed them at least.

I have to be disciplined and turn my attention to what everyone else here feels is the focus of today. I can only imagine that Mack is out of his mind with stress and decide not to bother him. No doubt he's been spending hours setting up all the
subtle visual cues in the environment and getting the subliminal messages set up for Marco's chip. He'll have already set up the private connection to Marco's lens, the illegal (as if that's relevant now) hack into his comms software, and it will all be ready to go once he's breathed in the pheromones from the plant.

Like every year for over two decades, I'll stand there and pretend to be awed. I'll remain hushed at the right point. I'll maintain a respectful silence as he opens the door to God's city and enters a space considered holy. I'm not sure I see it that way anymore. It's just an entrance, like a porchway into a church rather than the inner sanctum. I know that is a holy place.

But unlike everyone else, Mack and I won't be uplifted. In fact, the party after the seed ceremony is the lowest point of the year for me and the hardest to get through. The people who know me more than most—Kay, Pasha, Neela—they all think it's because it reminds me of Suh and how much I miss her. Mack handles the fakery so much better than I. He's a showman and so used to tricking people into thinking they want things that it's not a big deal to him anymore. But I've seen how stressed he's been since Sung-Soo arrived. I send him a quick note checking in and, unexpectedly, get an immediate request for voice chat. I accept.

“Just wondered how you are,” he says. He sounds cheerful. Relaxed even.

“Not looking forward to it,” I reply.

“Everything's done now. Try to focus on the positives. Everyone will feel better.”

He and I are so different. I can't see past the lie.

“And in a few days,” he continues, “we can talk about how to handle this in the longer term. I don't want to go through this again.”

“Neither do I. And they'll all want it to be Sung-Soo next year.”

“I know. I'll have profiled him by then; it won't be such a big deal. Especially if I can persuade him to get chipped.”

Not for the first time, I wonder if he's ever used his techniques on me. “If we were on Earth, you'd be locked up.”

“Only if I worked for anyone but the gov-corps.”

He laughs, but I don't. We left some terrible things behind. I don't want anything like them to take root here. “I'll see you later,” I say, wanting to have as much time truly alone as I can before the madness starts.

Eventually I'm in a newly printed outfit, smart enough to show I've made an effort, as is expected. I'm sure half the reason this has caught on over the years is the excuse to dress up and have a party.

People still celebrate Eid and Christmas and Thanksgiving and the like in small groups on days calculated to be as close to the appropriate one in the new calendar, but this day has become a universal celebration. It doesn't make sense to me—why celebrate the fact that Suh still isn't back? But they see it differently, celebrating it as a moment of connection with her.

When I leave the house, I have a momentary anxiety spike. It's the first time I've been outside since leaving Sung-Soo's place. He'll be there today. We didn't part on the best terms and I'm certain he's pissed off with me. I need to avoid him. I don't want anyone else to pick up on there being something wrong between us.

His house seems empty as I pass it and I can see most people are already much farther along the path than I am. The gentle bubbling noise of the crowd gathering within the courtyard of God's city grows louder and I shove my free hand in my pocket to clench my fist.

Kay is waiting next to the eastern gate and waves when she sees me. She's wearing a bright red aso-oke wrapped around her head in luxurious folds and then fanning out high and wide like a crown. It matches the wrapper set she's wearing; both were her grandmother's and one of the most precious things she brought with her from Earth. It makes her look bigger, taller, and lends a proud tilt to her chin. I want to pull her away from the crowd gathering close by and unwrap her in private, lay her down among the folds of rich satin and kiss her everywhere. But I just wave back and feel underdressed as she comes to meet me, the glorious red drowning out my pale blue trousers and long-sleeved top.

As she approaches I notice something hanging at her throat from a leather thong. It's a new pendant, one shaped like a hand cupping a face, carved from the same chunk of that strange deposit as mine. It makes me stop and so she closes the distance between us, kissing my cheek when she reaches me.

“Sung-Soo gave you that?” It's half question, half statement.

She nods and smiles, brushing it with her fingertips. “Isn't it beautiful? He carved it himself. I was wearing the ruby necklace you like, but he gave this to me while I was waiting for you and it's just too nice to stay in my pocket. Do you like it?”

I nod, unimpressed with the animal response that flared up inside as she spoke about it. As if I would be the only person he would give such a gift. I don't deserve to be singled out for his affection anyway.

“You shouldn't have waited for me,” I say to her, pointing at the entrance to the city's courtyard. “You'll be at the back now.”

She shrugs. “I don't mind. I wanted to see if you're all right.”

“I'm fine.”

“I didn't think you'd last at Sung-Soo's.”

“Why?”

“You like your own space too much.”

“I'd like to . . . Can we . . . I've been missing you.” I finally get the words past my lips.

“Come to my place after the party,” she says before kissing me with her hand cupped around my cheek, like the one on her pendant.

Even as I nod I worry that I've made the wrong decision. Am I just seeking solace in the easiest place I can find it? Why can't I just be in the moment like she can? I bet she isn't worrying about what she said as she takes my hand and leads me through the gate.

We squeeze in at the back and there are hundreds of people between me and the entrance. Everyone looks their best, from children who have been coaxed into tidiness and ribboned hair to people I never see in anything but coveralls now wearing suits and dresses.

Some are chattering with one another; some are looking around and up at the city with the telltale slow movements of LensCam recording. When they look up at its heights, do they really think Suh is up there? Really? Or is this event now relegated to the status of “tradition” so established that people don't really think about it at all?

If Mack and I don't put an end to this, will it endure? Would the children here be content with a fantasy of the undying Pathfinder, waiting for the right time to return, kept alive by strange and unnatural means in that alien place? Four generations from now will there be twee stories of Suh and the colony founders? In eight generations will they be regarded as allegory and nothing more?

They all seem so happy. I search the faces I can see from the back for any signs of doubt or cynicism, and there's none.
They've all been sucked into the glorious sideshow and if they have any disbelief, they've willingly suspended it to make room for a good old-fashioned get-together.

Mack understands these people far too well. They may be scientists and experts and handpicked from thousands of hopefuls vying for every single place on Atlas, but they're just people. Just frightened, insecure little things millions of miles from home.

This is home now.

I look down at my feet. What would Suh make of this? Would she be appalled? Flattered? I think she would be bemused.

“Sung-Soo looks a bit freaked-out.” Kay is pointing toward the entrance.

I follow her finger until I spot him next to Carmen, who is holding his arm and gushing animatedly at him. He's looking back over the crowd.

I don't think he looks freaked-out at all. I think he looks cynical. He looks like a man waiting for a magic show when he knows how the tricks are done.

“Shit, he looks like Suh,” Kay says.

He's wearing his hair loose and it's shining like patent leather in the sunlight. Carmen just won't shut up, even though he's not replying or speaking at all. He's scanning the crowd, taking in the faces. Is he looking for me? For Mack?

He doesn't find whatever he's looking for and turns back to face the entrance.

“Marco's coming!”

The hushed whisper flies from the child by the gate, one who's been staring out the whole time, hoping to be the first one to see him. It's quickly propagated through the crowd, leaving silence in its wake as everyone turns around and looks toward the entrance expectantly.

Marco arrives soon after, dressed in black linen trousers and top, looking significantly leaner than the last time I saw him. He pauses at the sight of everyone, then fixes his eyes on the entrance to the tunnel at the top of the slope and strides on. The crowd parts ahead of him, pushing Kay and me farther to the side as it does so.

This is something he has worked so hard for. He's meditated, avoided all stimulants and any drugs, lived apart for months, all to be the star of Mack's show.

I look away again, fearful that if I watch too much more, the urge to break the social spell will be too great to resist. Instead, I reach for Kay's hand and focus on its softness and the way she squeezes mine back.

If I start something between us again, the same thing will come between us. Is it time to open up to her? I try to imagine telling her about the house, even showing her, but the thought rapidly dissolves into anxious slurry. She'd never want to be with me if she knew about that.

I glance at her and she's watching Marco's progress through the crowd just like everyone else. I want to talk to her, but it would be selfish to do so now.

She notices my attention and leans across to whisper “What?” in my ear.

I press my cheek against hers and whisper back: “I had a little girl. The father and I agreed we'd be better apart. She had a genetic disorder. She died when she was three.”

She pulls back, still holding my hand tight, to look at me properly. At the edge of my vision I can see Marco walking up the slope to the entrance. She looks shocked, then full of pity, I think. Her eyes shine and she embraces me, taking care to avoid my hurt shoulder.

“You were right before,” I whisper. “I didn't share much with you at all. I'm sorry.”

“Why now?” she whispers back.

“Because I suck at timing,” I reply and she stifles a laugh. “Because I was scared.”

“We'll talk more later,” she says and kisses me again, this time with the intimacy and tenderness of a lover.

We both focus on Marco as he reaches the door. I feel horribly separated from the crowd, united in their anticipation, but no longer totally alone. Kay is with them and holding her breath too, but there is a connection between us now. I feel like I've started to rebuild a bridge between us and even though it's a flimsy, rickety thing, it exists and that's enough for now.

Marco presses his hand against the join of the door and the valve opens, just like the ones inside the tunnels that I'm used to. He leans back slightly, nervous—as everyone is—of the air inside. We tested it in the first year in full environmental protective gear and it's nothing like the atmosphere farther inside. But still, he's understandably cautious.

He takes a moment to prepare himself and then enters the tunnel. Those closer and at a different angle will see him take a few steps inside, pluck the seed from the plant and eat it. They won't see the puff of pheromones in the dingy interior, nor will they see any sign that he's been affected when he emerges.

Like the others before him, he comes out to face the crowd with a huge smile. He begins to speak the same old stuff as the others before about how much we've achieved, how much there is still to do. I tune out when he starts to talk about impressions of connecting with Suh, uninterested in the drama thanks to my knowledge of the special effects Mack has used.

My attention drifts to Sung-Soo. I can see his face in profile,
mere meters from Marco, and I'm disturbed by the frown on his face. Perhaps he's just concentrating, but I expected to see him . . . I don't know . . . enthralled like everyone else around him.

The frown leaves his face and he glances at the people around him, surreptitiously, like someone trying to find something interesting to look at during a sermon the rest of the congregation is attending to with diligence. It's as if he's checking their reactions. To compare them with his own perhaps?

I start to record, but it takes longer than I'd like, having to activate with eye movements rather than hand or speech interface. I don't trust my ability to read people. I've never been very good at it. I want to show Mack.

I'm left with a gnawing nervousness in the pit of my stomach and I want to leave. It rapidly escalates into a need to get away from here—away from all of it—as quickly as possible.

“I don't feel too well,” I whisper to Kay. “I need to go and rest.”