Vacuum Flowers (24 page)

“Snow?” Rebel asked.

The image considered this. “No. Not Snow. I am her shadow.”

“You are … Shadow?”

A quick snakelike motion of the head, a fractional smile. “Shadow, yes. That is a good name for me. Call me Shadow. I am a message for you. Snow believes it may take some discussion to convince you that your interests and hers lie in the same direction. Yet no members of her network were within easy interactive distance of you. Thus, she created me.”

“I don't understand. What
are
you?”

“I am an interactive ALI, that's Artificial Limited Intelligence. A temporary avatar based on the Snow persona. I have full human awareness and can discuss a limited number of topics with you. However, I am not provided with irrelevant information and cannot respond to irrelevant remarks. Please keep that fact in mind as we talk.”

“So you don't know from eating dead animals, you mean?”

“You exceed this program's capabilities.” Shadow made an impatient gesture. “We haven't much time. ALI's are created with an inherent disintegration factor. What programmers call a virus. I will die soon, whether my message is delivered or not.” A flicker of emotion within those reptilian eyes. Rebel thought she could guess at its nature.

“How long do you have?” she asked gently.

“We have already wasted one third of my life.”

“Okay, all right, I got you! What's the message?”

“You must take extreme care when you enter your niche. Diamond blue seventeen. There is a body there. It may not be entirely dead.”

“What?” Rebel touched the wall with one hand. Cool and rough. Its solidity reassured her. “I don't—”

“This is Snow's warning: You are being manipulated by the Comprise. You and your friend tetrad. They have convinced the Stavka that you are corporate agents, industrial saboteurs. They have created plausible and incriminating theories for all your actions. They have planted evidence. The body is such evidence. It will be discovered in six hours, and it will dovetail neatly into other planted evidence. Data system records will show that the murder could only have been done by you. The Stavka will order your personas erased and your bodies condemned to simple labor.”

“Wait, wait! This doesn't make any sense.”

“The important thing is to remember that the body may not be entirely dead. The murder was difficult to arrange, even for the Comprise, and there's a good chance the victim will still be alive when you enter. If so, he will probably be extremely dangerous.”

“This is incredible. Dangerous in what way? Why?”

“You have exceeded this program's capabilities.” Shadow waited a full two seconds, then said, “Do you have any further questions?”

“No. No, I … think not.”

“Please consider carefully. I do not have long. If you have illusions of destroying the evidence or of successfully defending yourself before the Stavka, please let me know, so I can convince you it cannot be done. I have been given that information.” The image wavered as a front of white static washed throught it. “I have been given that information.” A pale, attenuated yearning touched her face. “You must interact with me. It is very hard knowing one must die, but worse to die for no purpose.”

“All right, then. Speaking of purpose. Why is the Comprise doing this to me? What's in it for them?”

“You are being forced to run. You will find that there is no place for you to hide anywhere in Mars orbit. A check of the port control manifests will reveal that the only vessels leaving in the next six hours are all bound for Earth orbit. The Comprise wants to force you to Earth. I do not know why.”

“I do,” Rebel said grimly. “I understand it all now. I just don't have the slightest idea what to do about it.”

Transients pulsed through Shadow, making her waver as if seen from deep underwater. When she stabilized, she said, “I am almost over. Tell me. Have I served you well? Have I helped you to escape the Comprise's manipulations?”

“You stupid program! Snow works for the Comprise. She doesn't want to help me escape them. She just wants to be sure that I fall into their trap intact.”

“Ah,” Shadow said. “That's interesting. Very—” Static rose up and overwhelmed the image.

When it cleared, Shadow was gone.

One corner of the sleepspace was visible from the hall, and in it a pair of legs, unnaturally still. Rebel forced herself to peer within. The man's cloak was thrown up over his head, and his torso was bright with blood. An ugly smear covered the stone behind him. Feeling cold, Rebel said, “Hello?”

The cloak stirred as an arm caught in its folds moved feebly. The end of the arm jutted from the cloth, a stump black with crusted blood. Just above the stump was a tourniquet, and above that a crudely made infection barrier. Even from the doorway, Rebel caught the whiff of decaying flesh.

The arm moved twice, trying to flip the cloak way, and then on a third attempt succeeded, uncovering a face that was grey and gapemouthed. Pink eyelids slowly rose, and the man drew in a long, shuddering breath.

Haunted eyes stared at her.

It was Jerzy Heisen, and he was dying.

“Hey, kid,” he said weakly. “We've come a long way, you and I.”

The halls were perfectly silent. Not even a digging machine to be heard. Apparently she and Wyeth were the only ones using these dormitories today. Rebel wanted to untangle Heisen's cloak, to straighten his limbs and put him at ease. She didn't move from the doorway. “What happened, Jerzy?”

Eyes closed wearily. “Stupid. Stupid freak accident, couldn't happen again if you tried.” He coughed spasmodically; it was some time before he could speak again. “I was clipped by a runaway cybermop. Pretty dumb, huh? Supervisor must not've been at the monitors—they execute people for that kind of mistake here. Should never've happened. I fell on top of the sucker, and one of the cleaning arms broke loose and slammed me in here. Bet it made a bloody mess, huh?” Rebel nodded. “So now my back's fucked; you wouldn't want to look at it. I think my spine is crushed.”

“I'll get a doctor,” Rebel said. She couldn't move.

“No good.” Eyes opened, infinitely sad. “Got myself wired together with seven caps of jolt. That's enough to make a corpse walk. Dose like that eats your body alive.” He laughed weakly. “Seven caps. Must be some kind of record. Listen to me. I'm drugged and I'm dying, and I think maybe it's shorted out the compulsion they laid on me. There's something I got to tell you. Something they don't want you to know.”

“Oh yeah?” Rebel said. “What is it?”

“It's important. Deutsche Nakaso …” His voice slid down into inaudibility, but Rebel didn't lean any closer to hear. After a moment's silence, Heisen stirred slightly and rasped, “Come closer. Can't … can't speak too good.”

“No.”

“S'important.” Heisen coughed again, and tears of agony came to his eyes. “Mus' tell.”

“Oh, come off it. I'm not going to fall for that.”

“Closer,” he whispered.

Slowly Rebel slid down the doorframe, until she was sitting on the floor. She leaned her head back against the stone, crossed her arms under her breasts, said nothing. Heisen glared at her.

There was something savage and desperate to that fixed stare, as if the mind behind those eyes were a small animal caught in a leghold snare and about to gnaw its way free. “So,” he said at last. “So. You think … you're such a smart bitch.” He lurched feebly, and the arm caught under his body yanked free of the cloak. He was holding a finger-blade between second and third knuckles. With a spasmodic motion, he threw the thing right at her. Rebel leaned back, and the blade sailed by.

A second later it made a gentle metal
ping
against the rock wall.

The outstretched arm pointed straight at her. Heisen didn't have the strength to pull it back. “Smart,” he said. “But that doesn't give you the right to do this to me.”

Rebel drew her feet under her, stood. She felt anger fill her body. “The right to—! I never wanted to know you in the first place. What do you want from me? Are you hoping I'm feeling suicidal? Do you want me to bring you your knife and stand real close so you can cut my throat, is that it?” She was trembling.

Heisen nodded piteously. “Please.”

“Fuck that noise!”

Finally Heisen closed his eyes. Still his hand reached out desperately, grasping at nothing. His head lolled back. “You and Deutsche Nakasone,” he said. “Between the two of you, I've been ground into dust. You've killed me, and I never gave a shit for either of you.” His voice was growing weak.

“Hey, now listen—”

“God damn you,” he whispered. “God damn you all.”

They caught up with Bors just an hour inside Mars's sunspace. Rebel kept expecting pursuit, but there was none. Apparently nobody had noticed the hopper was gone. Even so, the hours at 2.5 Greenwich made it a rough trip. You could steal anything on Deimos, except for heavy gravity couches. There were none to be had. Apparently citizens were expected to simply stand and take it.

When they matched speeds with the
Pequod
, Rebel shook her head at the visual. “Is that it?”

“It certainly is a sight,” Wyeth agreed.

Perched on the end of the pushrod of a Workhorse-class disposable fusion tug was the oddest structure Rebel had ever seen. It looked something like a storybook Queen Anne house, all gingerbread and elaboration, but a Queen Anne house such as might be built in freefall by a madman. The turrets and projecting pavilions, bays, verandas, and octagonal roofs were all jumbled together and sticking out every which way. Rebel searched among the fishscale shingles, eyelid dormers, and widow's walks for a way in. Somewhere under that facade there must be a coldship. “Where do you think the airlock is?” she asked.

“See that Tudor arch portico?” Wyeth asked. “The one with the stained glass fanlight? That must be it.”

“Hah? Why?”

“It has a brass nameplate by the door.” He instructed the hopper to mate with the
Pequod
, wait ten minutes, and then kick away to fall back into a recovery orbit. “Let's grab our things.”

The airlock opened on a room rich with furnishings—tapestries on walls, framed woodcuts set into a paneled ceiling, and all-gravity furniture everywhere. Bors looked up from a chair by the fireplace and put down a book. “I thought that might be you. Come in, sit down. Let me help you with those crates.” He sniffed. “Do I smell organics?”

Wyeth separated out two crates. “These will need to be soft-frozen. The rest can be stored anywhere.”

“Storage, please.” Cupboard doors twinkled open, and a minute later everything was secure. Rebel and Wyeth hung their cloaks in a closet by the door. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

Rebel sat in a chair, slid her legs through the holes, and leaned back. “It's lovely,” she said. The fireplace was covered with climbing ivy. Water trickled down it, over bricks and leaves, to be collected at the bottom. There it was broken into hydrogen and oxygen, and the gases fed into the fire, where they burned merrily. The water vapor was drawn up the flue, chilled, and left to trickle down the bricks again. Rebel had never seen such a thing before; it was hypnotic to watch.

In the privacy of his ship, Bors wore not only his vest, but also a pair of green culottes and purple knee-socks. He was almost as aggressively covered as a dyson worlder. “Should I take my clothes off?” he asked solicitously. “Would that make you feel more at ease?”

“Oh, we're cosmopolitan enough,” Wyeth said. He settled into a chair, idly examined a set of plastic Napoleonic foot soldiers embedded in a display table beside him. “You could wrap yourself head to foot in linen, and we wouldn't blink an eye.”

“So long as you mean that,” Bors said. “Oh, and you both do realize that we have less than an hour's gravity left? If either of you wants to take a shower …”

Rebel looked up. “Shower?”

Rebel felt a lot better after showering. Relaxed and comfortable. She dried and dressed, and walked back through the dark paneled hallway to the parlor. A pair of side passages into distant parts of the coldship beckoned, and she was sorry there wasn't the time to explore. Ahead, she could hear the two men, already talking like old friends.

Bors and Wyeth were discussing war and literature.

“What you have to understand is the extreme speed with which the technology blossomed,” Bors said. “When Earth first became conscious, it used all its resources to spread the technology as efficiently as possible. The first transceiver was implanted in March, let's say, and all Earth was integrated by Christmas. The first clear notion anybody off-planet had of what had actually happened was when the warcraft were launched. Like a swarm of hornets bursting out of a well right into their faces, as the humorist put it.”

Moving her chair a smidge closer to the fire. Rebel sat down and drew her knees to her chin. She hugged her legs, feeling warm and comfortable and quiet, and watched the firelight play on Wyeth's face.

“Yes, but that's irrelevant. There were hundreds of millions of people living off-planet at that time. You can't tell me that they didn't take their literature with them. If anything was lost in the wars, it was probably too minor to be worth recovering. The idea of major literary works waiting to be found—well, that's pure fantasy.”

“No, no, we're talking about an extremely uncultured period of history. The first century of emigrants weren't exactly Earth's finest, after all. And romantic fiction didn't come back into vogue until the colonization of the Outer System. Believe me, when you're stuck in a tiny ship for months at a time without coldpacking—that's when you appreciate Anthony Trollope. The pity is that by then half his works were lost.”