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They’ve found someone, she thought, someone who’s been killed.
Ben had told her about the bodies in the streets in the morning, but it was something too far from her life to imagine.
“The death squads leave them for a lesson,” he said. “Bodies are there in the mornings for people to see when they go to work, when they take the children to their creche. Some have no hands, some have no tongues or heads. Some are mutilated obscenely. If you stop to look, you are questioned: ‘Do you know this man? Come with us.’ No one wants to go with them. Sooner or later a wife is notified, or a mother or a son. Then the body is removed.”
Ben had seen hundreds of such bodies in his work, and she had glimpsed these the night before in the speedy unreeling of his memories into her own. This wail she thought must come from a mother who had just found her dead son. Crista was not tempted to look outside. Ben returned to his watch at her bedside.
Had he seen anything of her when she kissed him? Such a thing happened sometimes with the kelp, but seldom anymore with herself. It had happened with others who’d touched her. First, the shock of wide-eyed disbelief; then, the unfocused eyes and the trembling; at last, the waking and the registry of stark terror. For those who had been lucky enough to wake.
What did I show them? she wondered. Why some and not all? She had studied the kelp’s history and found no help there, precious little comfort. She still smoldered over some research tech’s pointed reference to her “family tree.”
She remembered how she had been kept alive down under by the cilia of the kelp that probed the recesses of her body. She received the ministrations of the mysterious, nearly mythological Swimmers, the severest of human mutations. Adapted completely to water, Swimmers resembled giant, gilled salamanders more than humans. They occupied caves, Oracles, abandoned Merman outposts and some kelp lagoons. She had been one with the kelp, more kelp than human, for her first nineteen years. Some of Flattery’s people thought that she had been manufactured by the kelp, but she herself believed that couldn’t be true.
A lot of other Pandorans sported the green-eyed gene of the kelp, including Ben. At a little over a meter and a half tall she could look over the heads of most women and looked most men nearly in the eye. Her surface network of blue veins was slightly more visible than other people’s because she was nearly pale enough to be translucent. The blood in her veins was red, based on iron, and incontrovertibly human—facts that had been established her first day out of the kelp.
Her full lips puckered slightly when she was thinking, hanging on the edge of a kiss. Her straight, slender nose flared slightly at the nostrils and flared even more when she was angry—another emotion she dared not indulge among Flattery’s people.
Crista had been educated by the touch of the kelp, which infused in her certain genetic memories of the humans that it had encountered. Before Flattery took power, most humans contacted the kelp by being buried at sea. She had to shut out the flood of memories that came rolling in with the sounds of the nearby waves. She treated herself to another languorous stretch then turned to Ben.
“Did you sit up all night?”
“Couldn’t sleep anyway,” he said. He stood slowly, working out the kinks in his body, then sat on the edge of her bed.
Crista sat up and leaned against his shoulder. The disturbance below their window was gone. They faced the plaz, the morning sunlight off the bay, and Crista was lulled into a half-sleep by the warmth from the window, the coziness of Ozette beside her, and the harmonious chatter of the street vendors. In the distance she heard the heavy machinery of construction tear into the hills.
“Will we leave here soon?” she asked. She was invigorated by the sunlight, the plop-plop-plop of waves against the bulkhead and a whiff of broiling sebet on the air. The years of lies and imprisonment at the hands of the Director washed through her like a current of cold blood. Every morning that she had awakened in his compound she simply wanted to curl up under those covers and doze. Today, wherever Ben Ozette was going, Crista was going with him.
Someone whistled at their hatch, a short musical phrase, repeated once. It was the same kind of whistle-language that she’d heard from dockside the night before.
Ozette grunted, rapped twice on the deck. A single whistle replied.
“Our people,” he said. “They will move us this morning, much as I’d like to show you the neighborhood. Rico is setting it up. The whole world knows by now that you’re gone. The reward for your return, and for my head, will be enough to tempt even good people … on either side. There is much hunger.”
“I can’t go back there,” she said. “I won’t. I have seen the sky. You kissed me …”
He smiled at her, offered her a drink of his water. But he did not kiss her.
She knew that he would be killed if caught, that Flattery had already signed his death warrant. The Warrior’s Union would take care of it, had probably already taken care of every servant and selected others at the Preserve.
The night before, emerging from the underground, they had dodged from building to building along the waterfront streets, fearful of security patrols enforcing Flattery’s curfew. Crista had stopped in the open to look at the stars and at Pandora’s nearer moons. She bathed firsthand in the touch of a cool breeze on her face and arms, smelled the charcoal cookery of the poor, saw the stars with only the atmosphere in her way.
“I want to go outside,” she whispered. “Can we go out soon, to the street?”
Always the answer from the Director had been no. It was always no. “The demons,” they would say at first, “you would hardly make a meal for them.” Or, later, “The Shadows want you killed,” the Director would say. Lately, he had repeated, “You can’t tell—the swine could look like anyone. It would be horrible if they got their hooks into you.”
The Director had a particular leer that gave her the creeps, though to hear him tell it no one could protect her but him, no one she could trust in the world but him. For most of that five years she had believed him. Shadowbox changed all that. Then Ben Ozette came to do his story, and she realized that the only reason Flattery forbade her touch was his fear that she would learn something from him, from his people, and expose his intricate system of lies.
“Yes,” Ben said. “We’ll get out soon. Things are going to get very hot here very soon …”
He stiffened suddenly and swore under his breath. He pointed at a Vashon security patrol working their way down the pierside toward them: two men on each side of the street. They poured an insidious stillness over a choppy sea of
commuters and shoppers in the marketplace. The press of commuters crowding toward the ferries parted for them without touching.
Each guard carried a small lasgun slung under one arm, and from each belt hung various tools of the security trade: coup baton for infighting hand to hand, charges for the lasguns, a fistful of small but efficient devices of chemical and mechanical restraint. They each wore a pair of mirrored sunglasses—trademark of the Warrior’s Union, the Director’s personal assassination squad. Among the people there was much smiling, headshaking, shoulder-shrugging; some cringed.
Crista watched the pair work their way along the dockside street and felt the small hairs rise on her arms and the back of her neck.
“Don’t worry,” Ben said, as though reading her mind. With his hand on her bare shoulder like that she believed it was possible that he was reading her mind—or, at least, her emotions. She loved his touch. She felt a new flood of his life enter through her skin. It stored itself somewhere in her brain while her eyes went on watching the street.
The security team left one man in front of each building in turn while the other searched inside. They were close.
“What do we do?” she asked. He reached to the other side of the bed for a bundle of Islander clothes and set them in her lap. “Get dressed,” he said, “and watch. Stay back from the plaz.”
A sudden, concussive whump and a flash of orange blasted from the harbor, then a roil of black smoke. The street turned into a scramble of bodies as people ran to their boats dockside and to their firefighting stations. Pandorans had used hydrogen for their engines and stoves, their welding torches and power production since the old days. Hydrogen storage tanks were everywhere, and fire one of their great fears.
