Vacuum Flowers (35 page)

“But we own two-fifths of the corporation. Our share must be worth millions of years.”

“Billions,” Wyeth said moodily. Then he chuckled. “Well, easy come, easy go.” A shadowy figure gestured them away from the path, and they stepped through a hidden doorway into a harshly lit access corridor. The floor felt gritty underfoot. A barrel full of discarded orange peels flavored the air.

“But how could they possibly take it away from us?”

“As I understand it, most of the dirty work was done during the corporate restructuring, when your mother dumped her stock in order to create the Mudlark Trust. Then we had to leverage our holdings when Deutsche Nakasone got that judgment against us—”

“They've got a lot of nerve. I mean, they
got
their recording, and it was a best-seller, too. There must be hundreds of thousands of rebel mudlarks loose in the System by now. More, if you count the grey market knock-offs.”

Wyeth shrugged. “Those were just the opportunities. It was simply something that was going to happen. The Republique has better lawyers than we have, and I'm not even sure of the loyalty of our own. But I still don't know how they magicked it all away … and that's it in a nutshell. They know how and we don't.”

They were moving within an enchanted circle of protection, a ring of samurai that stayed always out of sight, like a membrane filtering out anything that was potentially dangerous. Now they came to a juncture of hallways, and a bodyguard bowed them to one side. They entered an elevator cage that was all black Victorian wrought iron and rose toward the hub.

In the elevator, a pierrot proffered a silver tray with a line of black Terran cheroots. Wyeth ignored it, but Rebel picked one up and waited while it was lit for her. She drew in a little smoke, exhaled. “So what are we going to do now?” she asked carefully.

“I don't know. We have infinite money for the next few months, however long it takes them. At the end of that time, the corporation will repossess everything. It's not legal for individuals to have the kind of wealth we do. Once we're forced out of the corporation, we're dirt poor again.”

The pierrot stood nearby, so unobtrusive as to be almost invisible, listening to their every word and forgetting it immediately. This was the kind of privacy the very rich could buy, their servants programmed to ignore their grossest crimes. Wyeth could strangle Rebel with his bare hands—or she him—in front of their bodyguards, without raising an eyebrow. So long as only the patrons themselves were involved.

They floated into the hub, trailing a thin line of blue-grey smoke. Their landau waited there, at the center of the newly retrofitted transit ring. The door was open, and they stepped within. “Home,” Wyeth said. The wheel disappeared from around them; A traffic redirector swallowed them up, spat them out, and they hung in the receiving ring of their estate.

“Listen, Wyeth, I got another tape from Elizabeth.”

“That old harridan.”

“Careful now, you're talking about me a hundred years from now,” Rebel said, smiling. “She told me that if I go back to Tirnannog, she'll train me in the mind arts. It's an incredible opportunity; wizards practically never take on apprentices, you know?”

Wyeth said nothing.

Their elevator slowly descended. “I want to go home, Wyeth. Now, while I still have the money and the chance. They've just finished the big transit ring, and Tirnannog is going to be the first dyson world to pass through. It's going to the stars, Wyeth, and I want to go with it.”

“Ah.” Wyeth closed his eyes. “I've been waiting for this, Sunshine. I mean, I can see you're not exactly happy here …”

“It's not a question of happy, gang, it's … just so artificial here, you know? I mean, in the System. And being rich doesn't help at all, it's just like always being wrapped in padding to protect you from hard surfaces and sharp edges and any least contact with the real world. Listen. Come along
with
me, okay?” She put her cigar down (somebody removed it) and squeezed his hand hard. “Give up this whole business here as a bad job. Come away with me, babes, and I'll give you the stars.”

Wyeth smiled wanly. “Sunshine, we'll be old before any of those dyson worlds reach even the first star. Even Proxima Centauri is a good fifty years away.”

The elevator stopped, and they stepped out into a lobby with polished marble and coral floors. Orange orchids drooped from onyx pillars. “So? We'll be old together under an alien sun. Come on, don't tell me that your sense of adventure is entirely dead.” They walked down a long hall between rows of granite elephants.

“It's not that, you know it isn't. But Earth is starting to slip into the System. They bought a dozen cislunar cities, and they've got an enclave on the moon. Soon they'll be everywhere. Conflict is inevitable. I've got to be here when it happens.

“No, you don't.”

“Yes, I do. Rebel, we've gone over and over this. This isn't just some whim of mine—it's my duty. It's my purpose.”

“Wyeth, people don't have purposes—machines have purposes. People just are. Come on, gang, you're the mystic, you know that.” But looking deep into his eyes, she saw that he simply wasn't listening.

He was not going to come with her.

Rebel's face was numb, stung by sudden cold loss. Wyeth paused to touch open a pair of enormous burnished doors. They opened upon sculptured meadowlands, an impressionistic Jovian sky. Rebel ducked her head, stared down at her feet flashing forward and back. Wyeth ran after her and caught her by the wrist. She wheeled.

“Stay,” he urged her. “We've been poor together. We can do it again.”

Rebel shook her head sullenly. “That's not it. That's not it at all.”

Again Wyeth hurried to catch up with her. “What, then?”

“I won't destroy my life for you,” she muttered. “I mean, you know me, I'd give up everything for you if I had to. But not this way, not just because you want to have everything your own way.”

“I'm not asking you to—oh, what's the use of talking? If I could, I'd go with you. But I can't. It's simply not my choice.” Rebel stopped before a second pair of doors, and Wyeth reached out to touch them open.

“Thank you,” Rebel said coldly.

Then, as Wyeth stared at her open-mouthed with outrage, she stepped inside and closed the doors in his face.

“Stars, please.” Rebel lay in a mossy cleft atop a bare rock hilltop, wind playing gently over her. This was her favorite room, the only one, in fact, that didn't strike her as being incredibly ugly, with the special vulgarity of new wealth. She'd had it modeled after the Burren. The sky blackened, then lit up with the kind of fierce starscape that simply could not be seen from the surface of Earth. The Milky Way was a river of diamond chips spanning the sky, each icy star almost too bright and perfect for the eye to bear. Rebel ground the back of her head into the moss. She felt as if every cell in her body was dead and ruptured, a small moan of grey agony.

After a while Wyeth stopped pounding on the door.

There were small blue gentians growing in the cracks of the rocks. Rebel poked one with a fingertip, left it unpicked. She wasn't going to stay with Wyeth. She wasn't.

A shooting star sped across the sky, chiming softly.

“No calls, please.” Rebel stared blindly up, trying to think. She could feel her life branching into two possible directions, and they were both bleak and meaningless. Another star chimed across the sky, then a third. After a pause, the Pleiades blossomed with dozens of shooting stars, tinkling like a celestial wind chime. “I said no more calls, thank you!”

The sky jumped. Stars rippled, as if stirred by gigantic tidal forces, and then faded away.

That wasn't supposed to happen. Rebel sat up and stared uncomprehendingly as the sky folded into featureless planes—blank white walls, floors, ceiling, all so uniformly pure they blended one into another. In the center, kneeling on a small red prayer rug, was an emaciated woman in white. Her head was bowed, hood down, revealing a bald skull. Then the woman looked up. Cold eyes. A hard face painted with crystalline white lines.

“You are a difficult woman to contact,” she said. “Your defenses against intrusion are almost certainly better than you know.”

“Snow—or Shadow, or whoever or whatever you are—I am not in the mood for your clever, little games today, so why don't you just go bugger off, huh? I mean, Earth's already got everything it wanted from me.” Then, bitterly. “Everybody did.”

“I am not acting on behalf of Earth.”

“Oh?” Rebel said before she could catch herself.

“Things are changing. You know that. Major political and cultural shifts are in the offing. One minor effect is that as Earth moves into human space, it values my network's services less. At the same time, the new wyeths have been giving us a great deal of difficulty. We've had to become more discreet, less accessible. Less effective.”

It made Rebel feel odd, knowing that Wyeth existed in a hundred temporary incarnations throughout Amalthea's Bureau d'Espionnage. He was, she had learned, as common a tool now as Bors. It pleased Wyeth to think of himself translated to the status of a natural force, constantly harassing the Comprise with his blend of dry humor, fanaticism, and mystic insight. Rebel was not so sure. “Okay, look,” she said. “Just tell me what you want and what you'll give for it, and I'll say no, and you'll go away, okay?”

Snow nodded coolly. “That is fair. You must understand that what I and other members of my net value most is the merger of thought into the cool flow of information. At peak moments, one loses all sense of personal identity and simply exists within the fluid medium of knowledge. If Earth would accept us into the Comprise, we would go. But so long as Earth finds us at all useful as we are …” She shrugged.

One hand slid from her cloak to stab the air by her side, and the sky about her filled with a montage of images from a few of the Rebel Elizabeth Mudlark dramas current throughout both Inner and Outer Systems. Here an idealized image of her served as altar for a goat sacrifice at Retreat. Here she was killing (with great zest and implausible weapons) an endless supply of island Comprise, rendered for effect into shaggy ithyphallic brutes with small red eyes. There, engaged in slow philosophical debate with Earth's mediator—a young man of Apollonian proportions, both arms intact—at the down station hospitality shed. “We have analyzed discrepancies in these dramatizations, as well as in the many interviews with you and the other principals of your affair on Earth.” Here came Wyeth on a glider to snatch her from the path of a raging fire. She slammed a sword through an adversary's eye, laughing, and leaped into Wyeth's arms.

“They're not exactly accurate, you know, “Rebel said dryly. “Even the interviews were scripted by corporate midmanagement. For publicity purposes.”

“I am aware of that.” Snow made an impatient gesture. “What interests me is the lapse that appears in your interview with Earth's mediator when the visual splice patching is edited out.” The sky filled with a single scene (Snow retreated to the horizon on small insert), a jerky hyperrealistic front view of the girlchild speaking. This was from the recording that had been made directly from Rebel's memories during proceedings in the Courts of the Moon. She saw the girlchild flicker abruptly to one side. “That gap there. We have run an integration of all peripheral data and are now convinced that what has been edited out is something Earth said regarding its rise to consciousness.”

Rebel nodded. “Yeah, I remember that. The court ruled that it was culturally dangerous information and had it suppressed. Is that what you're after?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Your wyeths and bors think of group intelligences as diseases that might grow to ravish the body politic of human space, with themselves as antibodies. But you yourself are a dyson worlder, you know what varieties of organisms may live within the human body. Not all are germs. Most are neutral. Some are even symbiotes. If we knew how Earth rose to consciousness, we might use that information to combine into small entities of, say, no more than eighty comprise each. A being of that size might live quietly within any major city, too small to be of any threat to your race. It wouldn't dare grow any larger for fear of detection.” Now the sky filled with enormous images of glistening diatoms, paramecia tumbling by green volvox (spinning like microcosmic comet worlds) and trumpet-like stentors dipping gracefully in their wake, a playful collection of such organisms as might easily be found in a stagnant drop of water. “There is room in human culture for variety.”

“You're overworking the analogy a little,” Rebel said. “But okay, so what are you offering?”

Snow returned to the center of the sky. Slice by slice, images locked into place about her. In a leafy niche in Pallas Kluster's corporate kremlin, a fat woman with her face painted with the maintenance government logo was talking to a man with a simple yellow line across his brow. A bors. Within the local Deutsche Nakasone subsidiary, a woman painted bors was talking with a woman painted midrange planning. Another bors was conferring with the head of Wyeth's legal staff. Bors himself stroked the thigh of Rebel's chief of house security. “You have been led to believe that you have several months before being squeezed out of the corporation,” Snow said. “Not so. Even now the Bureau d'Espionnage is seeking your arrest for economic sabotage.”

“Hah?”

“The rebel mudlarks.” (When the ceiling shifted back to the adventures of her public self on Earth, Rebel said, “Don't,” and Snow switched them off.) “Deutsche Nakasone has found that they're not buying new personas.”

Rebel started to laugh

“You can say that this wasn't your fault. That Deutsche Nakasone is paying for its own carelessness in including even a weakened version of your integrity when they copied the more superficial aspects of your personality—”