Harmony (29 page)

“Probably nothing you’d recognize as one,” said Cris.

“I saw in an old vid once how travelers used some pills to purify drinking water,” Yolanda went on.

“No, you just boil it!” insisted the boy, who didn’t understand yet that keeping to the proper sequence of turns was part of the seriousness of the Game. “And you gotta take seeds!”

“Cram it, Ivan,” said Yolanda.

“Seeds wouldn’t be a bad idea,” noted Cris. “Out There, healthy germ stock could be bartered for more immediate needs. That’s the key, of course—to bring stuff you can trade.”

Yolanda slouched into her chair. “You guys aren’t letting me finish.”

“Yerevan Dome lets people back anyway,” little Ivan admitted guilelessly. “They need people with training.”

“That’s what they tell you when you leave.” Yolanda dug around in her coverall, hoping to scare up enough change for another beer.

Jane shot Ivan a rankly envious look. “Do they ever take people who aren’t born there?”

“Ssssh!” Yolanda nudged me hard and pointed.

In the mirrored main salon, where the light seemed harsher than it used to, Mark eased toward us through the crowd. Gitanne had added several tables and cut-glass crystals on all the old brass chandeliers. Mark eyed them dubiously as he passed.

“Now I’ll tell what I’d do!”

“Not now, Ivan,” Yolanda advised.

Under the stuccoed terrace arches, Mark tried to greet Gitanne as she raced past him to usher in new arrivals. Evenings had been quiet at the Brim until Late Closing, a recently instituted policy that kept the Gates open until nine o’clock Fridays. I was amazed how noisy the place could get, even out here on the open terrace.

“First time I’ve seen him out and about after work,” I said, “You know, since—”

“Look who’s with him,” said Cris. Songh trailed Mark by half a pace, wearing the same intent face.

“What’s he doing here?” Yolanda demanded.

“Free country,” I returned lightly.

“I know, you’ve gotta work with him. But this is the Brim!”

Cris looked around at the sea of bright, fashionable clothing, at the tables laden with unfinished food, at the aisles choked with bulging shopping bags. “What’s a SecondGen or two compared to all these interlopers?”

Mark gave us a self-possessed smile and pulled up a chair next to me. “How’s the Game going?”

Nobody said anything.

“Don’t stop on my account. I can take it. We’re all going to need the practice.”

“We were just finishing,” I said.

He looked brushed and rested, with a briskness I’d never seen in him before. “In that case, I’ve put together a little research that might interest everybody.”

Yolanda eyed Songh darkly.

“Songh’s okay,” I said, looking at him hard. “You won’t blab, will you, Songh?”

His back straightened in reply.

“Songh’s our mole,” said Cris.

Mark spread a length of printout flat among the empties and condensation rings. “Figures from the Admin’s files. Just to confirm what we already know, I looked at the twenty years preceding. The yearly average of new apprentice admissions was fifteen hundred. Of each class, twelve hundred made the first cut, five hundred the second, an average of thirty-three percent. Approximately three hundred and fifty of those could expect to gain citizenship. Generally, forty to fifty citizenships were granted per year.” He bracketed the final set of numbers with his hands. “Now here’s the bad news: in the last ten months, no citizenships have been granted and renewals at all levels are down to twenty percent.” He leaned back, arms folded across his chest. His thick blond hair draped a diagonal veil across his eyes. “So?”

I gazed at the printout as if it were a death warrant, which in effect it was. Even Jane sat quietly, having passed her hysterical-in-public stage. How many weepy and sleepless nights she endured I could only guess from the depth of the hollows under her eyes.

“No wonder Micah’s been pushing us so hard to find work outside the studio,” I murmured.

“The sooner we make ourselves indispensable to some organization, the better,” Cris agreed.

Mark flicked his hair back impatiently. “This job, that job, forget it. Look at the numbers! No citizenships. It’s not going to matter how good any of us are!”

“You said there were still renewals,” Cris objected. “They’re just raising the review standards, in response to population pressures. We’ll have to work extra hard, but the best of us will make it through. Survival of the fittest—and we are the fittest.”

Mark did not leap to Bela’s defense. “Look at the numbers.”

“Okay, so they’re playing with the numbers!” Cris stood up, leaning excitably over the table. Like all of us, he was off the usual Brim rhythm. What was once healthy debate sounded shrill with all these tourists about. “They can’t cancel the program completely—it’s written into the constitution. It’s the law!”

“Harmony needs us,” I insisted more quietly.

“Why should it need us,” Mark replied silkily, inclining his head toward Songh, “when it’s got so many of him?”

Crispin’s fists clenched. “Yeah? Well, look at him! Christ, I’ve been trying to pump some guts into him for half a year! Harmony survives by selling its art, the art we will produce! If we go, you think he’s prepared to fill the gap?”

Songh bunched up his face to riposte.

“Such sound, such fury!” Dark hands descended on Crispin’s shoulders. “What could excite such youthful fire, O my brothers?”

Cris dropped like a stone into his chair.

“I did promise I would bring my friends,” Mali smiled. Pen and Tua were behind him and Sam following, as Gitanne shooed them all in the direction of our far corner. She did not look pleased with their bare feet or Pen’s tank top in her establishment. Mark and I shoved over to make room.

Mali took the chair between me and Mark. Tua smiled at Cris and slipped in next to him. Pen squeezed in between Jane and Yolanda, turned his mirrorshades on Yolanda’s dark braids and voluptuous shape, and his back on Jane. Yolanda glanced my way and I smiled back reassuringly. Sam eyed the remaining space skeptically and wandered off looking for a waitress.

Mali offered a shrug and an expectant grin. “So what’s up? We felt this energy surge all the way over in Fetching!”

Mark pinched a corner of his printout and drew it away casually. Mali reached, pinned the paper under his palm. “Is this the bone of contention?”

“It’s, ah…” Mark tugged at it faintly.

“Oh, let me pry!” Mali was suddenly so much the gossipy old woman that I laughed out loud.

“Let him,” said Cris.

Mali took up the paper for study. Sam returned to the table with a giggling waitress. He’d lured her away from a table full of strapping young Germans by making daisies appear in her cleavage. I decided my white rose was the more dignified tribute.

“Two double vodkas,” said Pen immediately.

“One single,” Sam advised. Pen’s eyes glittered unnaturally. I was sure he’d already put a healthy dose of something down his throat or into his lungs before arriving at the Brim. He glowered at Sam, then smoothed back his glossy black hair and turned away to lecture Yolanda about the last adventure holo he’d starred in.

Sam saw me watching them. “A rough day in rehearsal,” he said.

In the late amber light, his eyes were very blue. There was a toughness about him I hadn’t noticed earlier, a weathering you don’t see in domers, except among the really dedicated OutCare workers. Sam’s skin was not that biscuit color naturally, it was tanned by the sun. The Outsider sun of Tuatua. He was probably younger than I’d thought, thirty-five at most. Before I could ask why rehearsal had been so bad, he gave an odd little salute and wandered off again to nose around the terrace by himself.

“You ever see
Mission to the Wasteland
?” Pen asked Yolanda.

“No…”

“I was in that. How about
Down the Tubes
?”

Tua had cornered Cris with a detailed complaint about the rehearsal. She declaimed with the same passion and gravity as one might about the end of the world. Her perfect teeth flashed, her brown hands flew about like birds to the music of her voice. Cris was mesmerized. Even I had to admit she was distractingly lovely.

When the drinks arrived, Mali laid the printout down, tapping it pensively with his forefinger. “
No
citizenships?”

“Not for ten months. It’s unprecedented.”

“Who determines these things?”

“The Apprentice Administration and their citizen advisers.”

“But who are they?”

We looked at each other. I hadn’t wondered about actual names.

Mali sipped his beer, blotted his lip delicately on the back of his hand. “So what’s the plan?”

“Plan?” Jane echoed.

“Not much we can do,” shrugged Mark. “Just be ready.”

Mali shook his head. “My bros, there is always something you can do.”

“We can work like hell,” I offered. I frowned at Cris across the table. He should be listening to this, not to the sultry siren.

Pen bolted his vodka, glanced around for Sam, then snagged a passing waiter to order a double. His arm eased around the back of Yolanda’s chair. “So I told the director I always do my own stunts…”

“I mean in addition to working,” said Mali.

Mark folded his arms, an uncharacteristic show-me gesture.

“But you’ve begun already.” Mali fluttered the printout. “Fact-finding is the first step. Gathering for purposes of discussion is the next. What turns talk into action is organization.”

When we returned him dumb stares, he chewed his lip thoughtfully. “I see. The concept is an alien one.”

“I don’t think you understand, sir,” said Mark. “Our contract pledges us to abide by the rules of Harmony.”

“Are there rules against apprentices organizing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Be thorough, bro, be thorough.”

“I’m sure there are rules,” said Jane. “There are always rules.”

“You have no social clubs, no sporting teams?”

“Oh, that kind of organizing…” I stopped, as what he was suggesting finally sunk in. No small talk for Mali. He just plunged right in. “Lots of SecondGen teams. None for apprentices.”

“Organizing is anytime people get together in greater numbers than you can fit around a table, to talk about problems they share.” Mali nodded patiently. “This paper implies the rules are being changed. After the fact. Seems to me that voids the contract and gives you the right to action.”

“Action…” Jane murmured fearfully.

“Apprentices don’t really have rights in Harmony,” I said.

“Basic human rights,” said Mali.

“What’s it to you?” Mark asked suddenly.

“Ah.” Mali studied him. “Ungrateful as well as unimaginative.”

“Mark…” I chided.

“No, I mean, why should you care about apprentice problems?”

The Tuatuan turned on Mark his most intense and dignified regard. “Bro, I must always care, or lose myself in passive reflection. My father is the Rock.”

In our puzzled and uneasy silence, Pen’s background patter rose toward oration. “And then the fuckin’ idiot couldn’t even shoot the scene ‘til I showed him how to do it!”

Yolanda flicked a pleading glance at me as Pen drew her close. A couple at the next table stared in disapproval. Sam, who had seemed to be acting as Pen’s keeper, had disappeared. Even Tua was distracted enough from her tale of woe to reach across Cris and pat Pen warningly on the arm.

“I’m talking,” Pen growled.

“I know you are,” Tua replied. “So does everyone in the restaurant.”

“Fuck off.” Pen threw Tua’s hand aside. Yolanda gave a soft shriek and pulled away from his encircling arm. Her chair overbalanced and tumbled her backward.

Mali sprang to his feet. Sam appeared out of nowhere. Pen got off one drunken backhand swipe at Tua before Sam pinned him in a bear hug. Glasses shattered. Silverware clattered to the floor. Tua ducked, then fell gracefully into Crispin’s arms. He caught his breath as she pressed herself against him, weeping prettily.

Pen writhed in Sam’s grip and spat incomprehensible invective at Tua, at Sam, at the table in general. Diners nearby set down their forks and readied themselves for escape. Several waitresses headed for the kitchen. Mali came around the table and murmured to Pen in the strung-out, rolling syllables of their native tongue, words like the movement of oceans, more suitable to reason than to rage.

Pen snarled and lashed out with his feet. “I don’t have to take this from a fuckin’ second son!”

Mali’s hand moved so fast I never saw it, only heard the single resounding crack that shocked the room and Pen into silence. The calls of the vendors in the square below were suddenly very loud. Somewhere on the terrace, a woman moaned. A man hushed her impatiently. Gitanne halted under the arches, watching.

Mali’s anger was forbidding, first blowing up like a windstorm, now so obviously held under tight restraint. As Pen sagged slack-jawed against his chest, Sam eyed Mali with wary concern.

Mali took up what was left of the double vodka and poured it out at Pen’s feet. “The Second is Only, now, in case you’d forgotten.” He turned away and dropped into his seat, slouching low, letting the tension run out of his long, bony body with a ragged sigh.

Sam righted a toppled chair with a deft hook of his ankle. He lowered Pen into it, then stayed behind him, massaging his shoulders companionably. The cowed bantam cock sat still and stared at the table.

“Like I said,” Sam remarked blandly, “a bad day at rehearsal.” He glanced at Mali, gave Pen a final pat, then produced a clownish grin and a handful of colored glass balls, delicate and glittery as soap bubbles. Humming a very silly tune, he juggled them among the nearby tables, passing out self-deprecatory jokes and apologies.

Mali laughed softly. The rest of us took this as a sign that the worst was over. Except Yolanda, who chugged the rest of the beer I’d bought her and jogged Ivan’s elbow.

“Gotta go,” she excused, “before they close the mess hall on me.”

Ivan trailed after her with sorry backward glances.

“Mark,” I murmured, “where’s Songh?”

“Here…” Songh was actually under the table. “You’re all going to laugh at me.”