Shades of Grey

Quarantine

The janitor brought the Ford to a stop on a curved bluff next to the weathered WELCOME TO EAST CARMINE sign. We were within easy sight of the village, less than a mile away, and Fandango flashed a Morse code mirror-message that we had returned, were safe and well and had picked up a traveler. The lightning lookout flashed back that the message had been received, and confirmed that our quarantine would end at midday. If we were infected with Mildew, we would certainly show symptoms within two hours.

The morning was hot, so we sat under a nearby tree while Fandango brewed some tea on an oil stove and the Colorman told us about his career, which sounded forty times better than managing a stringworks. I listened with rapt attention as he spoke of the burning and intractable issues of the day with a sense of authority that I’d not heard before.

He told us that the Saturation Dispersion Index—known to all and sundry simply as the Fade—would doubtless continue to rise, which was glum news indeed. Mailboxes that had been typically painted once every half century now needed a new coat every decade. It placed an intolerable strain on limited pigment resources, and caused an increased demand for scrap.

“Is there any truth to the rumor that too much viewing accelerates the Fade?” I asked, as much had been written about the subject, and not all of it sensible.

“None at all,” said the Colorman. “In fact, I would recommend as much viewing as possible, to get the most out of the synthetic color before it goes.”

“Surely,” said Dad, “increased yield of the color harvest will take care of the shortfall?”

The Colorman told us that peak production was long past, and unless new toshing fields were opened up within the unspoiled Great Southern Conurbation, synthetic color might be rationed even more than it was.

“What about the Riffraff?” I asked, since if it weren’t for their continued occupation within the Inner Boundary and the problems crossing the hundred-yard-wide Zone of Disagreeability, the rich toshing fields of the Great Southern Conurbation would have been open long ago.

“Aggressive use of Variant-R Mildew,” said the Colorman in a low voice, “and if what I hear is correct, something like that will be happening quite soon.”

“How would such an action be framed?” asked my father, since the Rules specifically forbade the harming of any human, no matter how base their personal hygiene, habits or quality of speech. And Homo feralensis, although undeniably primitive, were definitely human.

“That’s the clever part,” said the Colorman. “The depredations they wreak upon the landscape and crops allow them to be reclassified as vermin—and thus within the scope of Rules regarding eradication.”

He laughed and added, “Loopholery at its finest.”

Dad and I exchanged glances but made no comment. I couldn’t deny that Riffraff were little more than walking biohazards, but once Mildew touches your family, you never wish it on anyone—not Yellows, not unpopular prefects, not even the Riffraff.

Sensing our nonalignment with his strident views, the Colorman moved his conversation to safer territory and outlined his recent work at East Park, one of the three truly great gardens within the Collective.

“I heard it was spectacular,” said Dad, who was something of a Chromobotanist. “I’d like to go and view it one day.”

“It’s more magnificent than you can possibly imagine,” replied the Colorman. “Full CYM feed boosted to eighty pounds’ pressure. We can achieve chroma and brightness at almost sixty percent, and anything off-gamut is hand tinted. They don’t just stick to the Botanical Swatch, either—intermediaries, secondaries, triadics—an infinite blaze of subtle hues that enliven the spirit and banish greyness from the soul. The lupin beds are particularly fine, and last time I counted, we used eighty-four different shades of pink alone.”

For the next hour or so we listened to him talk about the problems with the grid and the color shortage, which was unnerving. He reiterated his opinions about the as-yet-untapped Great Southern Conurbation, but also made comment that there was a huge quantity of undiscovered scrap color under the soil, as the Age of Geniality had laid a blanket of calming soil and leaf mold atop the Age of Intolerance, and it just needed skilled toshers to tease it out. He and Dad then talked about the pros and cons of opencast and drift mining in tosh pits, and how National Color were looking at ways to make univisual hues from natural pigments and had even managed, using a form of Chromosynthesis, to liberate a pale shade of synthetic orange from carrots.

“Eight tons for a spoonful of enriched univisual orange that’s barely sixteen percent chroma,” said the Colorman. “It’s not great, but the tech boys haven’t given up.”

I didn’t get the opportunity to creep away and meet with Jane until Fandango handed me the Ford’s water can and told me to get it filled. I set off through a grove of oaks for the river.

I’d liked what I’d heard from the Colorman. Working at National Color was every resident’s dream, but few managed to make the grade. Every year they inducted fewer than four out of a thousand candidates.

It was a dream, but as dreams go, the best: senior monitor status, unfettered movement around the Collective on an All Stations Super Season Apex , legal use of Leapback, requisition powers over any Ford and—best of all—surrounded by synthetic color at all times. The only snag was that even if you did have the qualifications and 60 percent minimum perception, you had to be put forward for selection by a head prefect—and prefects liked to retain the high-receptors to assist with color sorting. I’d not really considered it as a career because it had seemed somewhat distant and impossible, but it was probably worth a try.

“Over here!”

I caught sight of Jane, who gave me a smile and a cheery wave. Delighted that she seemed to have changed her mind about me, I quickened my pace and was not more than twenty feet away when I stopped dead in my tracks.

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” I said it between gritted teeth, not daring to move. The smile on her face had now gone.

“I did,” she replied, “and now perhaps you’ll tell me everything I want to know.”

I had been lured onto the smooth, grass-covered area that is typical of the space beneath the spread of the yateveo. I looked nervously upward at the sinewy, barb-covered vines and thought of making a dash for it, hoping that the carnivorous tree had caught a deer earlier and was still sluggish, or that I was still “one trip in hand,” as it took two triggered sensors to initiate a strike. But since I knew full well that a hungry yateveo could catch an antelope running at full tilt, I decided not to risk it.

“So,” said Jane, walking up to the edge of the spread, “it’s time to tell me what you know and, more important, who you’ve told.”

“Listen,” I said angrily, “don’t you think this joke’s gone far enough? Besides, you only said you’d kill me if I mentioned your nose, and I haven’t mentioned it once.”

In answer, she threw a stick at my feet. It hit a root sensor, and the yateveo raised its barbs in readiness to strike. One more hint of movement and I would be exactly where I am now—inside the digesting bulb with an assortment of corroded spoons, slowly losing consciousness and musing upon how I got there.

“Are you mad?” I exclaimed. “You can’t kill me!”

“I’m not going to kill you,” she replied. “The yateveo is. A tragic, tragic accident. After the mourning is over—perhaps tomorrow at tea time—you’ll get your name on the departures board, along with anything notable or worthy you might have done. Have you actually done anything noble or worthy, by the way?”

“Given the opportunity of a long life,” I answered slowly, “I might.”

“Good try, but no deal. Now, tell me what you know.”

I took a deep breath. It was time to come clean.

“I don’t know anything,” I told her, relieved to be able to finally tell the truth. “The ‘shamefully ludicrous idiot who fancies you’ act wasn’t an act. Yes, I’m curious about what you and Zane were up to, but it’s nothing more. All I really want to do is have tea with you, and perhaps pretend that there is a viable alternative to a life of string manufacture with the Oxbloods.”

“No one can be that deluded,” she replied, looking around for another stick to trigger the yateveo. “Did you see the unfinished ceiling in the town hall?”

“Yes.”

“Did your father?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Did you see anything else?”

“Somebody faded.”

“Did they tell you anything?”

“No—but she wanted to.”

“Hmm. And how did you know to visit Zane’s place?”

“Dad gave me his spoon,” I said with a nervous squeak in my voice. “It had his postcode engraved on the back.”

Jane stared at me for a moment, then shook her head sadly. “So you really are as stupid as you look?”

“I’m far more stupid than that,” I assured her, “but then curiosity has always gotten me into trouble. You should have heard Old Man Magenta sound off when I tried to improve queuing.”

“Normally I would tend to look on curiosity with favor,” she said, “but I think this time it’s far safer to just have you eaten. Unless, of course, you can think of a good reason why I shouldn’t?”

The very real possibility of death focuses the mind wonderfully. Chasing an intriguing Grey girl with a retrousse nose was as pointless as her killing me now. But all was not lost. I still had something to barter with. Perhaps the only thing I had ever had to barter with—here or anywhere else.

“Listen,” I said, “I have no idea what you’re up to, and it’s none of my business. You can kill me if you want, but it’s just possible I might turn out to be useful.”

She laughed. “What makes you think you have anything that I could possibly want?”

“Your hair,” I said. “It’s red.”

She stared at me. I had surprised her.

“Who told you that?”

I pointed to my eyes. I could see more red than most, and perhaps as much asany. Everyone would know for sure after my Ishiharaon Sunday, but right now Jane needed to understand that I might one day be up the ladder. I could be of use. She cocked her head to one side and stared at me. I could see that my plea was having an effect, so I told her I would be so unobtrusive from now on that “even the mice wouldn’t see me.”

“No,” she said after a moment’s thought, “I think you should carry on being curious. To keep the prefects distracted.”

“Did I say unobtrusive? I actually meant annoyingly inquisitive.”

“Annoyingly inquisitive is good—just not anywhere near me. Breathe a word about Zane, Rusty Hill or anything else and I’ll make good on my promise. If you agree, nod your head.”

I nodded my head, and she walked away without another word.

“Hey!” I said, although not too loud, as a yateveo can sense vibrations. “What about me?”

But she had gone. I looked nervously around at the barbed vines, which were still poised, ready to strike if I moved even a muscle.

“Plums,” I said to myself.