Vacuum Flowers (23 page)

But it was nice that he'd said it.

That night Eucrasia appeared to her in the form of a rotting corpse. Her fingers ended in chrome scalpels, and when she opened her mouth, hypodermic syringes slid from the flesh like rows of lamprey teeth. “Go back,” Rebel said. Eucrasia raised a grey hand in graceful gesture, and razor racks stung across Rebel's face.

For a shocked instant, Rebel stood her ground, staring through a haze of blood globules, and then Eucrasia lifted her other hand, and Rebel turned and kicked away.

She fled down an endless tangle of stone tunnels, falling up some and struggling down others. Time and again the necromantic horror behind her reached out lazily to slash the soles of her feet. She was trailing blood, and throbbed with pain from the knees downward. It seemed to her that she was fleeing through the arteries of a vast body, a dead body, a body of dead stone, and that the body was her own. With this insight, she found herself paralyzed and strapped to a gurney within a niche of New High Kamden's rose maze.

Eucrasia's face loomed over her. The wetsurgical paint was cracked and dry, the cheeks taut, and the mouth slightly agape with the tightening of the flesh. Eyes dry and sightless. She leaned close and, breath sweet with putrefaction, spoke.

But when Rebel finally awoke, all she could remember was that Eucrasia had told her truths that she dared not accept.

10

SHADOW OF SNOW

The next day somebody shot a citizen.

Rebel didn't hear of it until dinnertime. She'd been straw-bossing a work crew fitting a new airlock on Tank Fourteen. It was one of a dozen crews, all but hers overseen by citizens, that Wyeth was coordinating, but the others were all off on the hull or in the orchid. Half the hustlers in the tanks came out to sell her workers spiced fruit, wine, ganja, or bootie, and it was a constant hassle keeping them out of the way. The day before, the macrobioengineers had killed the orchid, and it was starting to liquesce. Even through the rebreathers needed now that half the air had been pumped from the geodesic, the stench was appalling. It was late when she finally got the lock working, and she was barely in time to catch a hopper to Deimos. She stepped into the bench as Wyeth was finishing his meal.

“Citizen got shot today,” Wyeth said. He gave her a hug, handed her a tray. A passing pierrot filled it with food.

“What happened?”

“The crew that was chopping the orchid for the protein refineries? They stumbled across a nest of bootleggers brewing up absinthe gin. Pretty marginal operation, I'd say, or they would've written that last batch off. Anyway, one of them had an air rifle. It went off.” He shrugged. “These things happen.”

“Was he hurt bad?”

“Here he comes now.” Two citizens took places at their table. One wore a chest sling, and Rebel could see the prosthetic lung moving within its amber depths. “Hallo, Cincinnatus. How's the prognosis?”

“No permanent damage done,” Cincinnatus said.

“I am curious,” the woman beside him said. “This air rifle, is it a common weapon in the belt Klusters?”

“No, no,” Wyeth said. “In fact, it's extremely impractical in most Kluster environments—more a toy than a weapon. Its range is greater than a blade's, but its accuracy is less. It's cheaper than energy weapons, but less versatile. However, there does seem to be something of a fad for the things in the tanks.”

Three more citizens came by, with Bors tagging after. He sat beside Rebel, braids swimming lazily about his head then slowly settling down. The static balls kept them away from his face. “This is my last supper.” He spread his hands to either side of him. “My coldship is being prepped even as we sit here.”

“And yet, as you say, this weapon seems peculiarly well suited to the needs of petty criminals. Why did you introduce it in the first place?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Wyeth said lightly. His questioner frowned.

Stilicho also joined the group. “I've been out examining the damage done by the weeds that came along with the sheraton. These vacuum flowers. I found them growing on tanks, on farm exteriors, on vacuum docks—there is even a patch on the surface of Deimos. They seem to be everywhere.”

“Oh they're tenacious all right,” Wyeth said. “Once they get a toehold, there's no getting rid of them.” Bors chewed slowly, watching the exchange with bright interest. “Speaking of unwanted presences, Stilicho, I was browsing through your public data base yesterday and found it riddled with Comprise incursions. I hope you don't keep any secrets there.”

“The People have no secrets,” Stilicho said. “Freedom of information is a basic right of our society. About these vacuum flowers of yours. How are they controlled on Eros Kluster?”

“Mostly they're not. They're kept down by dint of constant labor, but I couldn't say that they're controlled. The problem is that they're bioconstructs designed for trash transformation. The idea was that it'd be easier to harvest and process the flowers than pick up and process the trash. Somebody explained to me once how they got out of hand. Something about single-organism ecosystems. I forget the details.”

“Do you know any People's law?” Bors asked abruptly.

“I've seen something of it,” Rebel said.

“The geodesic should have been examined before acceleration. These verminous little plants will cost us enormous effort to exterminate—if they can indeed be exterminated. Seeding our space with their spores was criminal negligence,” Stilicho said.

“Somebody goofed, that's for sure,” Wyeth agreed. “Similarly, I think you'll be making a mistake if you don't sterilize your data system as soon as you can.”

“Fascinating stuff. Very informal, very final. Once judgment has been made, there's no appeal,” Bors said. “Their trials are held at mealtime. A few members of the Stavka gather at the suspect's table and ask questions. Witnesses drop by to chat, then wander off. By the time the meal is over—” he impaled seven peas on an eating needle and popped them in his mouth—“the guilty party has been condemned. And if he wasn't paying attention, he might well have mistaken it all for casual dinner conversation.”

Rebel glanced quickly at Wyeth. The expression on his face was suddenly careful. “Of course I myself had nothing to do with the exterior of the hull,” he said, “since I was responsible solely for
internal
security.”

“A legalism,” Stilicho said.

Cincinnatus shook his head. “No, that's a valid point. What I'm concerned with are all these rifles loose in the tanks. I believe they could well grow into a major social problem given time. It would—”

“Have you ever eaten meat?” Bors asked Rebel loudly. “I don't mean fish or termite compress, but real meat. Dead flesh, carved from animal corpses.”

Rebel stared at him blankly, and he jabbed her with his thumb. “People used to eat rabbits, I know,” she faltered. “And chickens.”

“They still do in the Outer System. Had it myself. Dead chicken is mighty fine eating.”

Several citizens glanced at Bors with distaste. Wyeth leaned forward and said, “I understand that on Earth people used to eat the major mammals—horses, cows, bears, apes.”

“Apes?” Cincinnatus said, horrified.

“Cows were more common, I believe. The cooks prepared them by hand, first killing the cow with a blow to the head with a large hammer. The animal grunts, the knees buckle, and there's your food.”

“I do not think this conversation is necessary,” Stilicho said. “Certainly not while people are eating.”

“Oh, but there's more!” Bors said. “Did you know that the internal organs were considered delicacies—the liver, the heart, the brains? You'd be surprised how little there is of a dead animal that you can't eat. The pizzle was boiled and served on a bun. The stomach was crammed with a stuffing made of the minor organs, roasted and then sliced—there's irony for you, eh?” Two citizens, faces pale, put down their utensils and fled. “Now the way they prepared lobster—this is especially interesting—they placed the creatures, still alive, in a large pot of cold water, then put a flame beneath the pot. Very slowly they brought the water to a boil. At first the lobster would skitter about, trying to escape, but then, as the water heated up, its motions slowed, and it died. When it was bright red, it was ready. To eat it, you had to crack the shell open and suck the dead meat out.”

Now Stilicho was the only citizen left, and he too looked nauseated. “We will continue our discussion tomorrow,” he said to Wyeth. Then, looking at Bors, he added, “Without you.”

“Did you notice how many members of the Stavka were here at our table?” Bors asked when they were alone. He tonged up a square of grub loaf. “I felt quite honored.”

Rising, Wyeth bowed formally and said, “I am in your debt, sir—I don't know when I've found conversation more valuable. But right now I have business to see to. Rebel, where are we sleeping today? I'll meet you there in an hour or so.”

“It's still diamond blue seventeen. Apparently guests get special privileges.”

Wyeth gone, Rebel turned to her meal again and found she had no appetite. She pushed the food about on her tray, but could not bring herself to place it in her mouth. She was about to excuse herself when Bors, leaning forward for a slice of papaya, murmured in her ear, “The
Pequod
leaves in an hour. If you caught me before I left Mars' sunspace, I could cut you a deal for transit to Earth orbit.” He settled back and winked. “Think about it.”

Halfway to diamond blue seventeen, a god-head, eyes luminous, stumbled up to Rebel and handed her a card. His paint was smeared across his face, but it had obviously begun as a green triangle. To Rebel, his mere existence was a revelation. It implied an entire underworld of vices in Deimos, hidden away from public view. With an ecstatic wail, the god-head broke away from her and trotted up the corridor, turned aside, and was gone.

Rebel looked down at the card. It was blank. Wonderingly, she ran a thumb across its surface. There must have been an empathic contact circuit layered onto the paper, for a voice whispered within her head, “Go to a public data port and place your hand against the screen.” A quick, almost subliminal flash of a large black wheel hung in the air. She recognized the logo.

Earth.

Rebel ran her thumb over the card again, but nothing happened. The bit of more-than-human technology had destroyed itself.

This was exactly Wyeth's kind of opportunity. Doubtless he'd have two-edged bargains ready to offer and poisoned concessions to make. In some neat little mental drawer, he'd have his baits fresh, his hooks sharpened, and his lines coiled. His arguments would be finer than a hair, almost invisible and yet stronger than diamond-whisker cable.

No matter. It was all irrelevant now.

Rebel was not about to follow up on the card. She had troubles enough of her own. But when she came to the intersection of tunnels down which the god-head had run, she glanced down it casually and saw him being beaten by a knot of citizens.

Two citizens were holding the man against the curve of the wall, while two others systematically pounded his stomach, his face, his chest, with their fists. They worked in grim silence, and the god-head did not cry out. Despite the damage done him, he grinned weakly. “Hey!” Rebel cried. “Stop that!” The citizens looked up. She felt vaguely foolish, as if they had caught her at wrongdoing rather than the other way around, but she ran toward them anyway.

The citizens' faces were stolid. Their victim's head lolled down against his chest, and he chuckled weakly. One citizen stepped forward, hand upraised to block Rebel's way. “Go back,” he said. “This is no concern of yours.”

“Maxwell,” she said wonderingly. “Maxwell, is that you?”

The citizen glanced over his shoulder at his fellows, then took her arm and started walking her away. She resisted at first, but then Maxwell said, “Think. There's nothing you can do.”

They turned a corner and walked on in silence. After a time, Rebel said, “This isn't like you, Maxwell.” He smiled ironically. “I don't see how you could have done this to yourself! You were always light. Carefree.”

“Irresponsible,” Maxwell said. “Yes, I know. I enjoyed it at the time. But I grew. Everybody grows.” They strolled along somberly, and then he said, “What did it for me was when I was snatched by King Wismon. He didn't just throw me in with his rude boys—he made me their zookeeper. Practically his second in command. Think of that. It was the first time I'd ever been put in charge of anything. And you know what? I enjoyed it. Not the work itself, but the sense of being responsible. Of being an adult. That's what citizenship gives me. They're sending me down to the surface tomorrow.”

“Maxwell, you were beating that man! That's not being responsible. That's just plain vicious.”

Maxwell thought for a long time before speaking. “Duty doesn't always make you feel good. That citizen will be re-programmed, but the memory still remains. He must remember that there was pain as well as pleasure.” They were now a good distance from the site of the beating. “But as I said, it's none of your concern. Your dormitory area is just ahead. Third corridor right, straight on to the end. You can't miss it.”

Rebel stood there as this new stranger turned and started to walk away. It was such a pathetic moment she wished she could slice it out of her memory entirely. All his ravings about responsibility. “Maxwell?”

He stopped, glanced back casually. “Yes?”

“Where's the nearest public data port?”

Smooth white niche. She touched fingers to the plate, and the holoscreen flickered on. Against a formless background, a woman knelt on a red prayer rag, gaunt in white cloak. She raised her head and studied Rebel through cold, colorless eyes.