Vacumn Flowers

10

SHADOW OF SNOW

The next day somebody shot a citizen.

Rebel didn’t hear of it until dinnertime. She’d been straw-bossing a work crew fitting a new airlock on Tank Fourteen. It was one of a dozen crews, all but hers overseen by citizens, that Wyeth was coordinating, but theothers were all off on the hull or in the orchid. Half the hustlers in the tanks came out to sell her workers spiced fruit, wine, ganja, or bootie, and it was a constant hassle keeping them out of the way. The day before, the macrobioengineers had killed the orchid, and it was starting to liquesce. Even through the rebreathers needed now that half the air had been pumped from the geodesic, the stench was appalling. It was late when she finally got the lock working, and she was barely in time to catch a hopper to Deimos. She stepped into the bench as Wyeth was finishing his meal.

“Citizen got shot today,” Wyeth said. He gave her a hug, handed her a tray. A passing pierrot filled it with food.

“What happened?”

“The crew that was chopping the orchid for the protein refineries? They stumbled across a nest of bootleggers brewing up absinthe gin. Pretty marginal operation, I’d say, or they would’ve written that last batch off. Anyway, one of them had an air rifle. It went off.” He shrugged.

“These things happen.”

“Was he hurt bad?”

“Here he comes now.” Two citizens took places at their table. One wore a chest sling, and Rebel could see the prosthetic lung moving within its amber depths. “Hallo, Cincinnatus. How’s the prognosis?”

“No permanent damage done,” Cincinnatus said.

“I am curious,” the woman beside him said. “This air rifle, is it a common weapon in the belt Klusters?”

“No, no,” Wyeth said. “In fact, it’s extremely impractical in most Kluster environments—more a toy than a weapon.

Its range is greater than a blade’s, but its accuracy is less.

It’s cheaper than energy weapons, but less versatile.

However, there does seem to be something of a fad for the things in the tanks.”

Three more citizens came by, with Bors tagging after. Hesat beside Rebel, braids swimming lazily about his head then slowly settling down. The static balls kept them away from his face. “This is my last supper.” He spread his hands to either side of him. “My coldship is being prepped even as we sit here.”

“And yet, as you say, this weapon seems peculiarly well suited to the needs of petty criminals. Why did you introduce it in the first place?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Wyeth said lightly. His questioner frowned.

Stilicho also joined the group. “I’ve been out examining the damage done by the weeds that came along with the sheraton. These vacuum flowers. I found them growing on tanks, on farm exteriors, on vacuum docks—there is even a patch on the surface of Deimos. They seem to be everywhere.”

“Oh they’re tenacious all right,” Wyeth said. “Once they get a toehold, there’s no getting rid of them.” Bors chewed slowly, watching the exchange with bright interest.

“Speaking of unwanted presences, Stilicho, I was browsing through your public data base yesterday and found it riddled with Comprise incursions. I hope you don’t keep any secrets there.”

“The People have no secrets,” Stilicho said. “Freedom of information is a basic right of our society. About these vacuum flowers of yours. How are they controlled on Eros Kluster?”

“Mostly they’re not. They’re kept down by dint of constant labor, but I couldn’t say that they’re controlled.

The problem is that they’re bioconstructs designed for trash transformation. The idea was that it’d be easier to harvest and process the flowers than pick up and process the trash. Somebody explained to me once how they got out of hand. Something about single-organism ecosystems. I forget the details.”

“Do you know any People’s law?” Bors asked abruptly.

“I’ve seen something of it,” Rebel said.

“The geodesic should have been examined before acceleration. These verminous little plants will cost us enormous effort to exterminate—if they can indeed be exterminated. Seeding our space with their spores was criminal negligence,” Stilicho said.

“Somebody goofed, that’s for sure,” Wyeth agreed.

“Similarly, I think you’ll be making a mistake if you don’t sterilize your data system as soon as you can.”

“Fascinating stuff. Very informal, very final. Once judgment has been made, there’s no appeal,” Bors said.

“Their trials are held at mealtime. A few members of the Stavka gather at the suspect’s table and ask questions.

Witnesses drop by to chat, then wander off. By the time the meal is over—” he impaled seven peas on an eating needle and popped them in his mouth—“the guilty party has been condemned. And if he wasn’t paying attention, he might well have mistaken it all for casual dinner conversation.”

Rebel glanced quickly at Wyeth. The expression on his face was suddenly careful. “Of course I myself had nothing to do with the exterior of the hull,” he said, “since I was responsible solely for internal security.”

“A legalism,” Stilicho said.

Cincinnatus shook his head. “No, that’s a valid point.

What I’m concerned with are all these rifles loose in the tanks. I believe they could well grow into a major social problem given time. It would—”

“Have you ever eaten meat?” Bors asked Rebel loudly. “I don’t mean fish or termite compress, but real meat. Dead flesh, carved from animal corpses.”

Rebel stared at him blankly, and he jabbed her with his thumb. “People used to eat rabbits, I know,” she faltered.

“And chickens.”

“They still do in the Outer System. Had it myself. Deadchicken is mighty fine eating.”

Several citizens glanced at Bors with distaste. Wyeth leaned forward and said, “I understand that on Earth people used to eat the major mammals—horses, cows, bears, apes.”

“Apes?” Cincinnatus said, horrified.

“Cows were more common, I believe. The cooks prepared them by hand, first killing the cow with a blow to the head with a large hammer. The animal grunts, the knees buckle, and there’s your food.”

“I do not think this conversation is necessary,” Stilicho said. “Certainly not while people are eating.”

“Oh, but there’s more!” Bors said. “Did you know that the internal organs were considered delicacies—the liver, the heart, the brains? You’d be surprised how little there is of a dead animal that you can’t eat. The pizzle was boiled and served on a bun. The stomach was crammed with a stuffing made of the minor organs, roasted and then sliced—there’s irony for you, eh?” Two citizens, faces pale, put down their utensils and fled. “Now the way they prepared lobster—this is especially interesting—they placed the creatures, still alive, in a large pot of cold water, then put a flame beneath the pot. Very slowly they brought the water to a boil. At first the lobster would skitter about, trying to escape, but then, as the water heated up, its motions slowed, and it died. When it was bright red, it was ready. To eat it, you had to crack the shell open and suck the dead meat out.”

Now Stilicho was the only citizen left, and he too looked nauseated. “We will continue our discussion tomorrow,”

he said to Wyeth. Then, looking at Bors, he added,

“Without you.”

“Did you notice how many members of the Stavka were here at our table?” Bors asked when they were alone. He tonged up a square of grub loaf. “I felt quite honored.”

Rising, Wyeth bowed formally and said, “I am in your debt, sir—I don’t know when I’ve found conversation more valuable. But right now I have business to see to. Rebel, where are we sleeping today? I’ll meet you there in an hour or so.”

“It’s still diamond blue seventeen. Apparently guests get special privileges.”

Wyeth gone, Rebel turned to her meal again and found she had no appetite. She pushed the food about on her tray, but could not bring herself to place it in her mouth.

She was about to excuse herself when Bors, leaning forward for a slice of papaya, murmured in her ear, “The Pequod leaves in an hour. If you caught me before I left Mars’ sunspace, I could cut you a deal for transit to Earth orbit.” He settled back and winked. “Think about it.”

Halfway to diamond blue seventeen, a god-head, eyes luminous, stumbled up to Rebel and handed her a card.

His paint was smeared across his face, but it had obviously begun as a green triangle. To Rebel, his mere existence was a revelation. It implied an entire underworld of vices in Deimos, hidden away from public view. With an ecstatic wail, the god-head broke away from her and trotted up the corridor, turned aside, and was gone.

Rebel looked down at the card. It was blank.

Wonderingly, she ran a thumb across its surface. There must have been an empathic contact circuit layered onto the paper, for a voice whispered within her head, “Go to a public data port and place your hand against the screen.”

A quick, almost subliminal flash of a large black wheel hung in the air. She recognized the logo.

Earth.

Rebel ran her thumb over the card again, but nothing happened. The bit of more-than-human technology had destroyed itself.

This was exactly Wyeth’s kind of opportunity. Doubtless he’d have two-edged bargains ready to offer and poisoned concessions to make. In some neat little mental drawer, he’d have his baits fresh, his hooks sharpened, and his lines coiled. His arguments would be finer than a hair, almost invisible and yet stronger than diamond-whisker cable.

No matter. It was all irrelevant now.

Rebel was not about to follow up on the card. She had troubles enough of her own. But when she came to the intersection of tunnels down which the god-head had run, she glanced down it casually and saw him being beaten by a knot of citizens.

Two citizens were holding the man against the curve of the wall, while two others systematically pounded his stomach, his face, his chest, with their fists. They worked in grim silence, and the god-head did not cry out. Despite the damage done him, he grinned weakly. “Hey!” Rebel cried. “Stop that!” The citizens looked up. She felt vaguely foolish, as if they had caught her at wrongdoing, rather than the other way around, but she ran toward them anyway.

The citizens’ faces were stolid. Their victim’s head lolled down against his chest, and he chuckled weakly. One citizen stepped forward, hand upraised to block Rebel’s way. “Go back,” he said. “This is no concern of yours.”

“Maxwell,” she said wonderingly. “Maxwell, is that you?”

The citizen glanced over his shoulder at his fellows, then took her arm and started walking her away. She resisted at first, but then Maxwell said, “Think. There’s nothing you can do.”

They turned a corner and walked on in silence. After a time, Rebel said, “This isn’t like you, Maxwell.” He smiled ironically. “I don’t see how you could have done this to yourself! You were always light. Carefree.”

“Irresponsible,” Maxwell said. “Yes, I know. I enjoyed it at the time. But I grew. Everybody grows.” They strolled along somberly, and then he said, “What did it for me was when I was snatched by King Wismon. He didn’t just throw me in with his rude boys—he made me their zookeeper. Practically his second in command. Think of that. It was the first time I’d ever been put in charge of anything. And you know what? I enjoyed it. Not the work itself, but the sense of being responsible. Of being an adult. That’s what citizenship gives me. They’re sending me down to the surface tomorrow.”

“Maxwell, you were beating that man! That’s not being responsible. That’s just plain vicious.”

Maxwell thought for a long time before speaking. “Duty doesn’t always make you feel good. That citizen will be reprogrammed, but the memory still remains. He must remember that there was pain as well as pleasure.” They were now a good distance from the site of the beating. “But as I said, it’s none of your concern. Your dormitory area is just ahead. Third corridor right, straight on to the end.

You can’t miss it.”

Rebel stood there as this new stranger turned and started to walk away. It was such a pathetic moment she wished she could slice it out of her memory entirely. All his ravings about responsibility. “Maxwell?”

He stopped, glanced back casually. “Yes?”

“Where’s the nearest public data port?”

Smooth white niche. She touched fingers to the plate, and the holoscreen flickered on. Against a formless background, a woman knelt on a red prayer rug, gaunt in white cloak. She raised her head and studied Rebel through cold, colorless eyes.

“Snow?” Rebel asked.

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

“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 through 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 ofthe 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 away, and then on a third attempt succeeded, uncovering a face that was grey and gape-mouthed. 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 growingweak.

“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 andcomfortable. 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.”

“But the best were preserved. Those that people actuallycared enough about to read.”

“Not necessarily. Keep in mind that a hundred fifty years ago most data were kept electronically, and that the data systems were the first things hit by Earth. In that initial month of war, before Earth retreated back to its own surface, it injected AI’s into every significant data net in the Inner System. They all had to be crashed. There are even some who say that without Wang and Malenkov—”

“I believe that Malenkov himself was an artificial intelligence.”

“But a patriot.”

“Oh, certainly.”

“Well, anyway…”

Rebel hooked her chin over her knees, let her head fall a little to one side, and listened contentedly. She felt happy and cozy and wistfully sad all at the same time. Savoring the fireplace’s warmth, she let the words wash over her in a homey, meaningless babble that rose and fell in soft familiar cadence. This was nice. Stop, she thought. Let this moment linger forever.

“Here’s a sample of what I mean,” Bors said. “Listen: And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night.

Nice stuff, eh?”

“It’s terrific. But your point is?”

“That’s from Matthew Arnold’s Dover Beach. But the only surviving version of that poem is exactly fourteen lines long, a descriptive fragment containing none of what I quoted. The critical work that scholars dug the darkling plain fragment from said that it was a major poem. You’d never know that from what we have.” Bors sighed. “It would make my career if I could recover the original.”

Wyeth laughed and held up his hands. “I surrender!

You’re absolutely right. There are doubtless thousands of manuscripts squirreled away in the dusty nooks of Earth that contain lost treasures. New Shakespearian tragedies, volumes of Bashu’s haiku, the complete Iliad, the interactive for Kpomassie’s essays on cultural responsibility.”

“Now I didn’t actually claim…”A soft chime sounded, and the fire went out. The water stopped, and the entire fireplace slid into the wall and was covered by enameled panels. “Look at the time! We’re entering public sunspace now. Brace yourselves.”

And then, right on cue, the fusion tug burned out and gravity cut off. In a swift, giddy instant of disorientation, Rebel lost all concept of up and down. A gentle noise puffed through the coldship as the lightsail deployed.

Rebel’s stomach lurched, and she had to swallow back the vomit to keep from throwing up. Her fingers clutched the chair tightly, and that helped her to steady her. And then, of course, she was okay again. She released the chair and floated over it.

“Well,” Bors said. “Since we haven’t the food, oxygen, or inclination to do otherwise, it’s time. I must say I’m sorry to interrupt this conversation, but perhaps it can be resumed a few months from now in Earth orbit. Coffins, please.” Gently, three black coldpack boxes rose from one floor. Rebel looked at them with something akin to panic.

She wasn’t ready to go under yet, was the thing. To sleep away the months between planets.

To die.

As a persona bum—and Eucrasia had been a good one—she knew that her identity wouldn’t survive coldpacking. There was that moment on revival, the merest instant, when the mind didn’t know itself. Perfectly free of yearning and ego, it tottered on nothingness and then grabbed for identity and was itself again. Tests had been run, and the results were always the same. Whenthere were two or more identities to choose from, the strongest one always won. By wetdesign standards strength was measured by connections to memory.

And Eucrasia’s memories were complete now.

Wyeth turned to Rebel, started to say something. She shook her head, and he fell silent. She could see by the stiffness of his expression that he too had been ignoring the realities. Pretending that this moment would never arrive. He did not rise from his chair.

“Am I missing something?” Bors asked, looking from face to face.

Neither answered him. Rebel turned away and kicked over to the furthest coffin. She examined its fittings, slid open the lid. “Sunshine…” Wyeth began in a choked voice.

“Don’t.”

She slipped into the coldpack unit and lay down. The padding was stiff and grey, and the workings crowded in about her. She wriggled slightly, shoved back a coil of cabling that was digging into one hip. She didn’t look at Wyeth at all.

She wanted to say to him that it had been fun. That she loved him. That she didn’t regret… Well, she wasn’t sure about that one at all. She regretted a lot of things. But she knew that if she once started talking, she’d never be able to stop.

Most of all she wished she could at least kiss him goodbye.

It was probably best this way. To go cleanly and suddenly, rather than to waste away with a slow rot that didn’t show until its work was done and everything that was Rebel had been eaten away, leaving nothing behind but a woman who wasn’t her.

All she had to do was to close the lid. The needles would enter her then, in five places, the sudden sting of pain chilling down almost instantly into numbness, and thenspreading. The crash jelly would flood in, and she would hold her breath for as long as possible, and then open her mouth and breathe in the jelly and choke, and then… no more.

She looked up then, against all her will, and saw Wyeth’s face. It was rigidly contained, but underneath she could see the pain and horror. She thought he was going to cry.

One hand rose ever so slightly toward her. He started to lean forward. She knew that if Wyeth were to touch her, however lightly, she would break into a million fragments.

Rebel reached up and slammed the lid shut.