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engineering them for food had been Stella’s family’s tradition for nine generations. Since the food shortages, production and research efforts went to food. Stella had never given up on flowers or the bees that made them possible.
She carried the tenth generation within her, a child that she knew by her dreams would grow to be a woman like herself. She knew this as her mother had known it, as all their mothers had known it for several centuries, a long tradition, difficult in these difficult times. These moss orchids were Stella’s own design, and she was eager to hear what musicians, those sculptors of air, other artists and Pandoran gentry would say about their look and their taste.
Stella knew that His Honor Alek Dexter was color blind, so she selected a blend that pleased herself. Most of the blossoms shimmered in the lavender range, though she couldn’t resist showing off a half-dozen of her delicate pinks.
A small-boned security guard with a big-boned swagger poked into each of her cartons with his lasgun and silently checked the moss beds with his knife. Stella had been scanned twice and body- searched by a matron when she entered the grounds. This was not the first time, and she supposed it wouldn’t be the last. Stella had some strong opinions, but preferred to concentrate on her flowers. A cordon of security closed off the entire block, and another contingent guarded the building. This was the home of the chief executive officer of Merman Mercantile, someone considered by the Director to be a prime target for the Shadows. He was rumored to be one of three men in line for the Director’s position should an unforeseen unpleasantness occur.
A sweeping structure of molded stone and plasteel, this home showed no effects from the recent series of quakes that had devastated much of Kalaloch. Its border was secured by a two-meter-high wall of rock topped with shards of sharp metal and broken glass. Stella shook her head.
The Line for this sector passes only a block away.
No one setting up this reception seemed at all concerned about the screams and the rumble of heavy vehicles less than a stone’s throw behind them.
The grim-faced security sported a flesh flower behind his ear, one of the new sculpted skin designs that she found repulsive. His underarms blossomed huge sweat rings, something more than she would attribute to the muggy afternoon.
“What would you find in that dirt,” she asked him when he finished, “deadly attack worms?”
The guard scowled, his glance flicking nervously from Stella to the smoky pall that collected under the gray cap of afternoon nimbus.
“I’m losing my sense of humor,” he growled. “Don’t push it.”
“Are you afraid that the mob will come in here and—”
“I’m not afraid of anything,” he blurted, puffing his boyish chest against baggy fatigues. “My job is to protect Mr. Dexter, and that’s what I’m doing.”
She began the tender task of removing the plants from their containers and setting them in their beds beside the walk. She liked this part best—handling the silky vines and blind roots, smelling the loam as she broke it open. At the end of the day, when she cleaned her short nails, she did it over one of her pots so that nothing was lost. Her ancestors spent their first three generations out of hyb building soil.
“You must like flowers, you went through a lot of pain and trouble to get the one behind your ear.”
“I was drunk,” he said. “If they could get them to smell good, it wouldn’t be so bad.” “They’ll come up with something, you’ll see,” she said. “Smell these.”
She held a lavender orchid up to him. He took it from her and put it to his nose, then allowed himself a smile. It pleased her that the tension in his face relaxed a bit.
“Yeah,” he said, “that would be nice.”
“Well, this type of flower didn’t have a scent until just a year ago. And it didn’t blossom from moss until five years ago. I taught it how.”
“Flowers!” The security snorted in a show of disdain, but didn’t turn away. “You can’t eat flowers. You should grow something that people can eat.”
She hesitated, swallowed, smiled.
“What?” She put her hand to her mouth in mock surprise. “They shoot you for growing food without a license. You don’t need a license to grow flowers. Besides, your soul needs food, too. Flowers have a spiritual nutrition that you just can’t measure.”
He looked less skeptical, but kept his guarded posture. She bit back the temptation to talk about her bees, because bees meant honey and fewer than a handful of people knew about her honey production.
Once her plants were bedded she misted them well and swept her clippings and stray dirt away from the walk. She felt a little nervous. She was stuck in town without transportation. Her neighbor, Billie, had given her a ride to the job first thing this morning. Her Cushette, though practically new, had burned out another something that meant it wouldn’t start. She didn’t like town, anyway. It wallowed in tight places and it always frustrated her. The tram into the central area with a transfer out…but it was probably shut down because of the mobs. She didn’t relish the idea of walking the ten klicks home without Doob to protect her.
“Stella, my dear, are you finished out here?”
Mrs. Wittle, the hostess, beckoned her from the front hatchway. She was a gray-haired, prim woman with an honest smile for everyone and a fair skin that could only be Merman-born. Though soft-spoken and delicate, Mrs. Wittle had singlehandedly saved a boatload of Pandora’s finest art during that first series of quakes in ‘73. She had been a volunteer at the museum desk down under when the collapse came and commandeered an old delivery sub. Instead of saving herself, she loaded artwork into the sub even as the seams of the museum dome split, sending streams of waterspray powerful enough to slice a human in half.
“Yes, Mrs. Wittle. Do you like them?” The elderly woman glanced down at the walk and her eyebrows raised ever so slightly.
“Lovely,” she said, and sighed. “They were right about you, my dear. But now I have a problem and perhaps you can help me.”
“What is it?”
“Some of the help that we were counting on haven’t shown up today … the troubles, you know. Could you stay awhile longer and greet our guests at the door? I have the guest list here, and name tags are on the table just inside the hatch. Of course, you are welcome to stay as my guest and enjoy the reception. Would you do that for me?”
Stella had strong feelings about rich people, and they were strong negative feelings. A few meters away the starving poor lined up for hours to buy limited rations with their hard-earned pay. Servants of the rich handed over cards stamped “Exception” at the high-security back door loading dock and filled their vans with an abundance of food. Stella had worked parties like this before to be able to take home leftovers. The pay meant nothing, she had always earned more than her ration card allowed her to buy. She had never been able to figure out the red tape process for getting a ration card stamped “Exception.”
But today her Cushette was not running and she had no safe way home.
“Yes,” she said, “I can stay. But I’m not dressed … and I’ll need a ride home.”
Mrs. Wittle brightened and took her by the elbow.
“You don’t know what a worry you’ve lifted, dear. Of course we can arrange a ride for you, you just leave that to me. Now, let’s have a look at my daughter’s wardrobe. She had some wonderful things that should fit you nicely. There’s an elegant black dress that will look splendid on you, though I’m sure that anything would look splendid on you.”
Stella blushed at the compliment.
“Thank you,” she said. “She won’t mind?”
Mrs. Wittle’s face darkened for an unguarded moment, then she set her chin forward.
“No, my dear, I’m afraid not,” she said. “She was killed in that terrible scene at the college last season. Terrible.”
“I’m … I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Well, she had her own mind,” Mrs. Wittle said, “and she insisted on using it.” Then, i
n a whisper, she added, “I was so proud of her. I’ll tell you the story someday, this is not the time.”
The dress was slinky and black. The fit in the bust was uncomfortably tight, though it seemed that any pressure at all hurt her breasts lately. The neckline plunged a bit, too, showing her off as she hadn’t been shown off before.
“I wish Doob could see me in this,” she said, turning in front of a pair of mirrors. “He’d love it.”
“Then you’ll just have to keep it, my dear,” Mrs. Wittle said. Tears welled in her eyes but nothing spilled. “In fact, I wish you’d look through these clothes and take anything you can use. It’s not right that they just hang here, they’re not paintings, after all.”
Stella protested but Mrs. Wittle prepared a carton full of her daughter’s clothes, then escorted Stella to her position at the small table beside the entry way.
The guest of honor, Alek Dexter, arrived tugging his shirtsleeves flush with the jacket cuffs and cursing the muggy afternoon. Stella pinned his name tag to his left breast and smoothed the fabric out of habit. Instead of joining the rest of the guests, he lingered beside her and unabashedly appraised her cleavage. She caught his gaze and held it until he looked away.
“Been in meetings all day,” he mumbled. “After this shindig that the distributors put together I have to speak at a Progress Club dinner in two hours and then meet with the Director at a cocktail party at eight. No wonder I’m always out of breath and can’t lose weight. You look beautiful, my dear—” he squinted at her name tag and moved closer to her chest, “—Stella. Stella Bliss.”
They shook hands and she found his palm very sweaty.
I didn’t think these bigshots sweat in public.
A sheen gathered at his forehead and upper lip and he dabbed at it with a handkerchief.
The Honorable Alek Dexter motioned to his driver, who lounged nearby in the cool breeze of the hatchway.
“I’ll need another shirt,” he said, his voice lowered. “Powder blue will do for tonight.”
