This Alien Shore (5 page)

She could see glittering spires now, studding the outer surface of one of the spiraling tendrils. On another were a series of domes, brightly colored, and flyways whose clear walls glittered with light. Closer in to the main body of the ship, where the tendrils merged, was a section of squatter, more prosaic structures, hi-G designs that reminded her of pictures she had seen of Earth's surface. Was this where passengers stayed who feared the infinite emptiness of space, so that they could barricade themselves in stocky constructions reminiscent of their homeland and ignore the glorious open vista beyond? As a child of the habitats she had no such fear, and for a brief moment she wondered what a person who did was even doing in space. But the lure of Guild space was not to be denied. Once a person had traveled to the nearest ainniq, he would have access to all the stations of the up-and-out, nearly fifty thousand by current count. Factories and habitats and merchant rings and mansion spheres scattered throughout space with neither star nor planet to mark their position, gathered about the nodes where the ainniq intersected so that the outpilots could find them. Who wouldn't brave their deepest fears to gain access to that universe?

I'll be there soon,
she thought in wonder.
I'll be part of that system.
She pressed her face to the tiny window, trying to see beyond the bulk of the metroliner, to the vast dark reaches beyond. Could she see the ainniq from here, if she tried hard enough? They said it was all but invisible until you were right on top of it, but she tried anyway. She knew where it was from her outspace lessons, and she located the stars that bordered it, but between them all she saw was the endless blackness of normal space. Maybe when they were closer, she thought. Maybe she could see it then, if she looked right.

With a lurch the pod dropped suddenly downward, a direction that hadn't even existed mere moments before. She grabbed a restraining strap quickly enough to keep herself from slamming into the padded interior of the pod. She could feel the great ship's G-field taking hold now, and her stomach lurched as it struggled to adjust. No doubt there would have been a gentler approach available when Earth's emigrants first came here, a fine gradation of gravities designed to ease the transition for dirt born travelers, but by now the costly docking mechanisms would have been shut down for the journey. She caught sight of a new dome outside the window—this one filled with a vast, madly twisted tree—as she grabbed for the pod's small headset, which had been knocked from its pad by the jolt. She caught it and stuffed it hurredly into its slideaway. She had finally used it to read her tutor's chip, memorizing the information it scrolled across her field of vision. Now, as she hurriedly packed away those few items which were still free in the pod, she ran the details of the identity he had created through her head over and over again, trying to become comfortable with them. Her tutor hadn't warned her about presentation, but she sensed that
how
she offered up her story would matter every bit as much to these people as
what
she said. Hopefully if she repeated it often enough it would become second nature to her, and the new family name that he had given her would become so familiar that she would answer to it without hesitation.

Heart pounding, palms sweating, she settled herself at last into the landing harness and buckled the heavy straps about her body. Symbols were blurring across the holo screen on the cabin wall, but the docking program was fully automatic, so she didn't bother to read them. If something was wrong, the pod would let her know. Her wellseeker sensed her agitation and once more offered to correct it; after a minute she let it do so, and felt the fevered pounding in her chest slowly calm to a more normal rhythm. It was a superficial correction—the fear inside her was not to be banished so easily—but it was comforting nonetheless.

Would they accept her story, this metroliner crew, and let her join the wealthy passengers who were sealed within the great ship? Were the funds acknowledged on her chip enough to pay for her passage? And if so ... what then?

She couldn't even imagine what kind of future awaited her in this place. As for what lay beyond ... that was too alien to contemplate.
One day at a time,
she told herself. Her hand closed tightly about the amulet with its dreamscape icon.
One day at a time ...

T
here were tests, of course. There had to be.

There were questions.

There
were,
as always, voices.

Fucking assholes!
one raged.

...
necessary ...
another cautioned.

... They have no right! the first insisted.

And a wail from the hidden depths inside her, half sound and half pure agony:
What now, what now
WHAT NOW... ?

“Shut up,” she whispered, as she tried to say the right things, do the right things, be the person that her tutor's chip had described so she could earn her way into the up-and-out. There was no time to think about anything else yet. No time to mourn. But those things would come later. Oh, yes.

And then ...

A validation chit, placed in her hand. A tiny apartment, that opened to her thumbprint. An access code for the library, the commissary, the bank....

We made it,
one of the voices whispered.
We're safe now.
Strangely, it seemed to be talking to her. Usually the voices didn't do that. Usually they only talked to each other, and referred to her—if at all—like she was an uninvited guest.

It was jarring. A bit frightening. And also, in a strange way, comforting.

“I hope so,” she whispered back.

I
T TOOK Dr. Kio Masada nearly two hours to paint his face for the day. He preferred to take that much time when he could, to work with care and patience until every line was perfect, until the symmetry and the proportion of his chosen design were utterly without flaw. It wasn't an easy task. The human face is an asymmetrical creation, and while subtle variations in the sweep of an eyebrow or the curve of a nostril might go unobserved by a casual aquaintance, they were all too clear to the programming specialist as he labored single-mindedly on his work. He knew each jarring element of his canvas by heart, and hated them each even as his kohlstick labored to distract and correct. He had once considered having his facial flaws surgically corrected in order to facilitate his daily painting, but he now understood that such imperfections were a vital part of his cosmetic ritual, that the rush of satisfaction he felt as his human intellect overcame the restrictions set by nature would be a sad and meager thing if the marks of nature were erased by a surgeon's scalpel.

At last, satisfied, he stood back and regarded his handiwork. His mocha skin was just light enough in color to let the black design stand out, just dark enough that, as he shifted position, the lines seemed to fade in and out of shadow, a pleasing quality. He had chosen the
iru
as always—that was necessary for any kind of social intercourse—but had supported that primary design with lesser patterns from the
kita
and the
nanango.
It was a combination he had come up with years ago, and it had served him so well that he had once considered having it tattooed on his face for good, to save himself the time and effort of this morning ritual. But the thought of the fine black lines blurring with age was more than he could bear, and the concept of a foreign hand taking responsibility for the difficult design—perhaps misjudging one line out of twenty by an infinitesimal amount, disfiguring him for life—was equally abhorrent. Better by far to take the time himself, and bear responsibility for what others saw in him.

The rest of his image was more difficult to judge. He had been called handsome by some, but lacked any real insight into what features were responsible for that appraisal. He was of medium height for Guera, which put him at slightly taller than average for most colonies. His body was fit—he saw to that with the same compulsive perfectionism that was his professional trademark—but if there was some subtle quality in the balance of bone and muscle that added up to
beauty,
he was incapable of discerning it. He dressed plainly, comfortably, oblivious to the fashions of the day, and took no care with his thick black hair other than to keep it short enough for comfort. If the fine silver lines fanning out from his temples drew attention to his dark eyes, if the short beard that he affected framed his face to advantage, those qualities were purely accidental; he neither understood nor cultivated their appeal.