Clade (6 page)

“Creepy,” Josué says.

The pod drops them off at a narrow footpath that leads into a small park. They trudge through a copse of umbrella palms. It’s dark under the UV-reflective canopy, and they stumble on rocks and coiled roots. They pass by a children’s play area—with its ground-cover of black foam rubber beneath swings, slides and jungle gyms—and then a couple of baseball diamonds and soccer fields. The fresh odor of grass hangs in the air.

“These mountains used to be covered with redwood trees,” Rigo says. “A forest of them.”

“Did they really have red wood?” Josué asks.

“Like blood,” Rigo exaggerates. “Plus, they could grow to over a hundred meters tall and six meters in diameter.”

“What happened to them?”

“They died off in the ecocaust, like most of the native plants. Redwoods drank fog to survive. That’s how they got most of their water. But after a while it got too dry for them. There used to be oak trees here, too. And madrone and manzanita. About the only thing that survived were the eucalyptus trees and old-style palm trees.”

“How come?”

“They weren’t native to this area. They came from desert climates to start with. Places like Africa and Australia.”

Funny how transplants survive when natives can’t, Rigo thinks. How indigenous species almost always get outcompeted by foreign invaders. It’s the same with people, he thinks. No different.

Pretty soon they come across the shrine. It’s encircled by a low fence and rough-hewn benches arranged like pews. Hardcopy photos hang on the fence, printouts of loved ones who are either sick or dying. Several tables along the fence display flower vases and votive candles. The vases sprout artificial roses, lilies, violets. Waxy tears runnel the candles, clot in solid puddles on the tabletop. An outside church, roofed by a vaulted ceiling of leaves. Rigo half expected to encounter a healing service in progress, but the place is tranquil. Josué races up to the table, eschewing quiet reverence in favor of unbridled religious fervor that is the result of too much sugar. Anthea follows more slowly, as if approaching an altar or holy monument. She could be visiting Easter Island or Stonehenge.

After a few seconds Josué announces, “I see her.”

Anthea stops next to him, places a hand on one shoulder. “Where?” Hard to tell if she’s humoring him or having trouble dissecting the shadows and assembling them into a meaningful pattern.

Josué points at an amorphous Rorschach blotch in the grain, a blond discoloration worn smooth as the Wailing Wall by the hands of supplicants.

“Can I touch her?” he asks.

“I don’t see why not,” Anthea says.

Josué bends close, trails a tentative fingertip across the angel the way he might a live electrical wire.

“Feel anything?” Rigo asks.

“Not really.” Josué straightens, clearly disappointed by the lack of immediate gratification, and drifts over to the fence to look at the pictures, leaving them alone for a moment.

Anthea reaches for Rigo’s hand, threads her fingers through his. “It’s so quiet,” she says. “Peaceful.”

“Yeah.”

She gazes down at the table. Puckers her mouth. “It’s smaller than I remember.”

Rigo grins. “Everything looks bigger when you’re a kid.”

“The way it works,” she says, “is that people lie down on the table. That’s how you open up to the angel.”

An image of bloody sacrifices, something out of the Old Testament, flashes across Rigo’s mindscape.

“Do people really get cured?” he asks. It seems like one of those things that only happen in the distant past, like raising the dead or slaying dragons. It’s not a part of modern reality. Shit like that just doesn’t happen anymore. “I mean, have you personally known anyone who got better?” He does his best not to sound sarcastic, to treat it as an honest question.

“The time I was here this old woman had bone cancer in her spine. She was in a wheelchair, totally paralyzed. She had to be lifted onto the table. People stood in a circle around her, holding hands and chanting. Praying. After a few minutes, her hands moved, then her feet. Pretty soon, she was able to get up and walk.”

“How do you know it wasn’t staged?”

“You’re such a skeptic.” Her fingers tighten around his, the pressure affectionate but urgent, as if willing him to believe.

“I wonder what caused the image to appear?” he says.

“Maybe it’s like ashes,” she says, “or a shadow. You know, like those people in Hiroshima.”

“Maybe.”

“The angel always makes me think of us,” Anthea says.

Rigo blinks. “It does? Why?”

“Because we’re like a miracle,
papi
.”

Rigo stands there, quietly holding on to her hand and the moment for as long as he can. Except for a brief visit by the ICLU, it’s been a pleasant evening. The last thing he wants to do is ruin it by opening his mouth.

SIX

At work the next morning Rigo’s boss, Rijn Ajisa, calls first thing. Before he has a chance to suit up. “Rigo, could I see you in my office?” Her expression on the inside of his wraparounds is an implacable tableau, a blank screen onto which he projects the heat death of the universe. He’s only been to her office once before, the day he started work.

“Sure. No problem.” His stomach pinches, twists into a knotted rag as he pods from the vat building to the main corporate office. Gone is the pleasant afterglow from last night.

The leak in his biosuit. There must be a serious problem with the warm-blooded plants. They’ve been contaminated, hosed beyond repair.

Either that, or politicorp security found out about the delivery he made for Beto—the old woman was working undercover—and is now going to arrest him. If that’s the case, he’s screwed. Life as he knows it is over.

Like a condemned man, he mounts the stairs to Rijn Ajisa’s second-floor office. His legs feel leaden, his bowels queasy, as if he’s climbing the steps to a guillotine or hangman’s noose.

“Please close the door,” Ajisa says as soon as Rigo steps inside. Not a good sign. He nods, swallows. The door seals behind him like the lid of a coffin.

In addition to Ajisa, there’s a man he doesn’t recognize in the room. Dapper. Dressed in a natty tan suit sans vest, but sporting a bolo tie of twisted snake-skin tipped with silver-anodized rattles at both ends, the two glossy braids anchored at the neck with a turquoise-studded clasp the size of a belt buckle. The man’s hands are wrinkled and liver spotted, parched by UV and inscribed with veins the color of blue ink. Smaller blood vessels trace entoptic intaglios just beneath the skin, mandelas of random hypnotic squiggles that are hard not to stare at.

“Have a seat, Rigo.” Ajisa gestures amicably toward the remaining chair in front of her desk.

Rigo plops down next to the man, who regards him with double-barreled gunmetal blue eyes under gray hair. It looks as if a dust bunny has taken up residence on the crown of his skull and been plastered in place with coffee-colored spit. Rigo turns to Ajisa. “What’s up?” he says, trying to keep his voice casual.

Ajisa settles into the plump gelbag behind her desk. “This is Arnez Whipplebaum, from Xengineering.”

The old man thrusts a hand at him. “Pleased to meet you.” Rigo expects a molasses-slow drawl. Instead the accent is British, the grip gnarled but effete— the kind of hand that is clearly a product of natural selection, has evolved over several generations to fill the specialized social niche of hoisting a teacup in a precise manner at a precise time.

“Arnez is implementation manager for the Kuiper project,” Ajisa tells Rigo. “He’s in charge of the Tiresias test phase.”

Rigo turns to Whipplebaum. “Does this have anything to do with the data I sent yesterday?”

“The infrastructure on the comet is very nearly complete. We’re preparing to go live, so to speak. Deploy the ecotecture.”

“Is there a problem?” Rigo says. Might as well get everything out in the open, up front.

“No,” Whipplebaum says. “And, frankly, that’s what has us worried.”

“It does?” Rigo shakes his head, confused.

“We’re concerned there might be errors we’re missing,” Whipplebaum explains. “Overlooking. The problem is, we can’t postpone the inevitable any longer. No more excuses. It’s time to put up or shut up. Walk the talk, as they say.”

Uh-huh. “What does that have to do with me?” Mouth dry.

Whipplebaum steeples his hands in front of his lips. “You’ve been working with the plants on a day-to-day basis for six months, now.” Hard to tell if it’s a question or a statement. “You’re familiar with them in a practical, hands-on way that no one else is at this point. Dirt under the fingernails, and all that.”

Rigo rubs the back of his neck to hide his discomfort. “I guess.”

“Simply put,” Whipplebaum says, forging ahead, “we’d like to have a gardener on hand for the installation. Make sure everything is properly up and running before the colonists actually set foot in the ecotecture.”

A gardener. Is that what he is? “You want me to go to the comet?” Rigo says.

Whipplebaum’s head bobs, as if attached to a spring. “Precisely. We’d like to have you in situ during the transplant process.”

It takes a moment for him to catch up with Whipplebaum. “But there aren’t any seedlings ready to plant. Those are several months away.”

“Right. Instead of growing the warm-blooded ecotecture on the comet, to save time we’ve decided to relocate some of the mature plants.”

Rigo tries to picture them being moved en masse, lifted into low orbit on one of the geosynchronous elevators and then transported to the comet. “When?”

“Tomorrow morning. You’d shuttle up the day after that.”

A last-minute decision from the sounds of it. “That’s not much notice,” he says.

“Things are moving ahead rather quickly,” Whipplebaum admits, as if he too has been left out of breath by the unexpected pace of events.

“How long would I be there?” Rigo asks.

“Not long.” Whipplebaum waves a hand, the movement a leafy flutter. “A day or two at most, to make sure everything’s shipshape. Naturally your team will accompany you. That should make things somewhat easier.”

“They’ve agreed to go?”

“We haven’t talked to them yet,” Ajisa says. “We wanted to discuss it with you, first.”

In other words, get his answer. “What about the rest of the vats we’re in charge of down here?” Rigo asks.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ajisa says. “You’re covered. This is far more important right now. A priority.”

“Would there need to be any special training? None of us has worked in zero-g or a vacuum before.”

“You’re already used to working in biosuits. So that won’t be a problem. As far as zero-g, it might slow you down a little in the beginning. But I spec you’ll adapt fairly quickly. Of course, you’ll be claded for the ecotecture. You won’t have to take antipher shots. Too risky in that type of situation.”

“Think of it as an adventure,” Whipplebaum says with cheery import. “A chance to broaden your horizons.”

No way he can say no. Not if he wants to position himself for further advancement. Besides, if he doesn’t agree to head up the team they’ll just ask someone else. Rana or Antoine. Ajisa and Whipplebaum know that as well as he does. So his answer is a foregone conclusion, the discussion a formality. Interesting that they felt the need to ask him, give him a choice instead of just telling him to pack his bags for the trip.

“All right,” Rigo agrees. “Sounds exciting.” And it is. A great opportunity, no doubt about it.

“I knew we could count on you.” Whipplebaum brims with enthusiasm and an almost paternal sense of approval that leaves Rigo feeling starched with pride.

After the meeting, Rigo gives Whipplebaum a tour of the warm-blooded vats. His crew specs the situation right away and are on their best behavior. They fall into an antlike rhythm. Quiet, efficient, single-minded, as if they can sense something important is about to go down . . . that they’re being inspected as much as the facility and the plants. It never hurts to make a good impression.

“One of the biggest concerns we have with zero-g flora,” Whipplebaum says, “is assuring their integrity.”

“I’ll bet.” The two of them are standing in the vat building that houses the main greenhouse plant.

“That’s why the sensor data you’ve been transmitting is so important. It establishes a baseline against which we’re able to measure the progress of the plants in orbit.”

“I see,” Rigo says. This is the first he’s heard of what the data was actually used for.

“What we’ve found,” Whipplebaum continues, “is that most plants react to zero-g in much the same way that people do. They suffer the vegetative equivalent of bone loss and reduced circulatory efficiency.”

“So, you’ve had to tweak them genetically. The way workers get tweaked when they live in space.”

Whipplebaum runs a gloved finger across the lens-dimpled surface of the plant, as if caressing the cheek of a newborn. “Structurally, we need the plants sturdy enough to withstand both gravitational and rotational stress.”

“Gravitational?” It doesn’t sound like Whipplebaum’s talking about micro-g’s here.

“It’s conceivable that emigrants to the belt might want to install mass drivers on the asteroids to move them about, nudge them into slightly different orbits. During that time the plants will undergo acceleration and deceleration.”

“Is that one of the things you’re going to test on Tiresias?” Rigo asks.

Whipplebaum turns toward Rigo. A white picket-fence grin flashes behind the faceplate. Rigo takes that as a yes.

“How would you like to live in the Kuiper belt?” Whipplebaum says.

Rigo can’t tell if the question is rhetorical or a genuine offer. “I don’t think so,” Rigo says.

Behind the faceplate, Whipplebaum’s helium-filled enthusiasm appears to burst, as if his whole raison d’être has been pricked. “Why not?”

“Too dark. It’d be night all the time.”

“But you’d be gengineered to require less sunlight. Like the plants. You wouldn’t
feel
deficient.”

“Plus, it’d be cold.”

“Again, you wouldn’t notice.” Whipplebaum’s mood reinflates as Rigo’s objections are quickly overcome and dispatched. “It would
feel
balmy. You would be absolutely comfortable. Perfectly adapted to your environment.”

Rigo shrugs. “I guess I don’t spec the advantage.” What else can he say? It’s just not his idea of a good time.

“For one,” Whipplebaum says, “there’s considerably more open space. Scads of it. Several times the land area of earth, in fact.”

“Only more spread out.”

“True. But that means no overpopulation for several centuries. Not to mention, cheap real estate.”

Rigo digs one heel into the nutrient-rich ice underfoot. “But not much to look at in the way of scenery.”

“Not until the plants are well established. After several years—fifteen or twenty at the most—it will be a tropical paradise.”

Rigo shakes his head. “What would I do there?” “The same thing settlers on a frontier have always done, build a new world. You would certainly enjoy far more freedom and independence than you do now.”

There’s a sort of bow-legged, tobacco-chewing, shit-kicking romanticism to Whipplebaum that feels . . . what? Not just anachronistic—hopelessly antiquated—but dangerously unrealistic.

“I’m happy here,” Rigo says, “doing what I am.”

“Too bad. You’d be missing the chance of a lifetime.” The second time this has come up. “Especially for someone in your situation.”

Rigo’s subtext meter twitches. “What do you mean?”

Whipplebaum hesitates a fraction of a second. “Only that you’re young. You have very little weighing you down, holding you back. Nothing to lose, everything to gain, as it were. Not like those of us who have acquired far more baggage than is healthy.”

Rigo has the impression he was going to say something else, and then thought the better of it—that Whipplebaum is dropping hints. Trying to
tell
him something. Father Cielo had the same effect on him when Rigo went to church as a kid. Rigo was guilty, even if he didn’t know what the sin was. Eternal damnation lurked just around the corner. He was just too blind to see it.

“I’ll think about it,” Rigo says, noncommittal.

Whipplebaum claps him on the shoulder, turns, and exits the vat building. When they’re back outside, blinking at the sunlight, Whipplebaum says, “How would you like to go to a party tonight?”

“A party?”

“A private gathering for some of the project specialists you and your team will be working with on Tiresias. Gengineers, programmers and technical support personnel, as well as a number of the colonists.” Whipplebaum winks, as if a wasp has just kamikaze’d into his eye. “I can promise that you’ll find it most entertaining. An intimate get-together, quite unlike any you may have attended before.”

“Sure,” Rigo says, not wanting to be impolite or impolitic. “Sounds good.” Plus he’s mad curious. His interest is
piqued
.

Whipplebaum’s IA, an agent named Trigger, squirts him an invitation. The party starts at eight, and is in CV. Carmel Valley. Rigo opens his mouth, prepares to concede that he’s not claded for CV, when Whipplebaum pulls out a sprayon ampoule and hands it to him with a flourish, as if he’s delivering an invitation from the queen. “Dose yourself with this half an hour before you arrive at the door.”

The ampoule is yellow glass with blue and red tracery. Very art nouveau. “What is it?”

Whipplebaum does a little half bow. “Your admission ticket.” He seems to have anticipated Rigo’s situation and deftly headed off any embarrassment.

“Congratulations,” Varda says after Whipplebaum is gone. “After all your hard work, you’ve finally hit dirt pay.”