The Wellstone (17 page)

“If you didn’t run,” he said, “then the Constabulary made you disappear, along with the others. There were only two ways out.”

“What others?” she asked, completely flummoxed by this bizarre story, whose key details had not been spoken yet. Had they?

“Runaways,” he said. “Royal runaways. We’d escaped from ... well, it doesn’t matter where. Wrongful captivity, let’s say.”

“Why did the building collapse?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “Bascal was cooking up something illicit. Garbage Day, I heard him saying, but I was at the wrong end of the table.”

It seemed a weirdly candid thing for an agent on a secret mission to say. She looked him over, taking in his fretful stance, his nervous face. His not-quite-tasteful swimsuit that looked like something a public fax would print for free, no questions asked.

“You aren’t making this up,” she said.

He let out a breath, relaxing visibly. “No, I’m not. And if you’ve suffered this disappearance as you say, then it’s a mystery to me as well. You have a loose copy, a loose end somewhere. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

Later, with charity-fax hamburgers in their bellies and loose wellcloth pants and shirts over their swimsuits, they sat together on one of the many covered bridges that connected the towers of the downtown district. Anyone could get inside the bridges, but Xmary had shown him how to get up onto the roof; now their legs hung out past the drip rail, dangling in the late-afternoon breeze. Their brains were buzzing lightly, too, from mood capsules they were technically not allowed to purchase until the age of thirty.

“We don’t have to stay here,” she told him tentatively. “The Queendom is our oyster.”

But Feck shook his head at that. “We do, actually. The moment I step in a fax, I’ll probably be diverted to Constabulary headquarters. No one knows I’m here—they can’t, or I’d’ve been arrested weeks ago. Somehow, they don’t even know to look for me. It’s part of the mystery.” He paused for a moment, looking up and down Stout Street, whose white gaslights were already coming on, although the sun hadn’t fully set. “Anyway, this is fine. Nice view. No traffic.”

“It’s a quiet corner,” she agreed. “One of my special places.”

Little chills of excitement were shooting up and down her spine. She’d never met anyone like Feck before: someone with a mission, a task, an actual job to do. A criminal, yes, but with an excellent pedigree. The
prince’s
own
criminal. The fact that he was nervous and pensive about it only made it more real.

Feck glanced down at the bridge roof itself, and scratched at it with his fingernail in an experimental sort of way. “There could be listening devices anywhere—hypercomputers, scanning for tripwords. But somebody would have to put the right tripwords out to them, hmm? And would they bother?”

“You have to be careful what you say?”

He shrugged, a bit helplessly. “Things need to be said. I have to do it somewhere. There are no people around, so that’s a good start.”

Foolishly, she asked him, “Do you have a favorite girl?”

He frowned, still scratching at the roof. “It... I’ve met several here in Denver, and see them regularly. Beyond that, I’m not sure what you mean. I didn’t approach you for ... ,” he trailed away nervously. “Of course I like you; I feel desire. I’d be crazy not to. But that’s not why we’re here.”

And this just made the situation that much more thrilling. “Why are we here?” she asked. “What is your secret mission?”

“My mission?” He smiled thinly beneath his boyish mustache. “I’m instructed to start a riot. I’ve been telling people it’s on Restoration Day, beginning exactly at nine P.M.”

Restoration Day: the fourteenth of August. Sixteen days from now.

“A riot? You mean, like, smashing streetlights and stuff?”

“Sure, whatever we can manage.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure. Tying up resources? Drawing attention? In the scheme of things, I believe it’s part of a larger disruption.”

“Revolution,” Xmary said, liking the idea right away. Secret missions for all; a chance to disturb this endless, stifling peace! It was not only the ultimate bid for parental recognition, but a sort of adult enterprise in its own right. Like any revolution: a chance to right wrongs and lay claim to neglected rights. There was no democracy—no republic, even—for the children of her generation. And when could there be, ever?

“Maybe,” Feck agreed. “It could come to that, although we’re scarily outnumbered and outequipped. I guess the thought is more to shake things up, for attention. So I have to ask: do you have any particular talents I can add to my team?”

“I’m good with my hands,” she said without hesitation. “I do stupid, useless handicrafts.”

“Ah, so you can make untraceable things,” Feck suggested.

She didn’t deny it. In fact, a Christmas garland she’d strung up between a pair of lamp poles one year had fallen into the street and damaged a bus. Chewed the hell out of its tires and finally broken its axle, because her folded impervium stars had one of those shapes that formed a stable tripod on the bottom and left the final point sticking straight up. When she’d checked later, her encyclopedia had called it a “caltrop,” and identified it not as a decoration, but as a defensive armament useful against personnel, ground vehicles, and especially horses. And no, the garland had never been traced to her in any way, even by Mummy and Da, although a detailed analysis would have revealed her DNA and fingerprints and electronic shadows or ghosts. But nobody had bothered, because it was just a damn cheap Christmas garland blown down by the wind.

“I can make untraceable things,” she confirmed.

“Beautiful
and
talented,” Feck said seriously. “That’s raw.”

Xmary felt a smile coming on. “Shaking things up is the duty of youth, Feck. And we’ve been neglecting it, haven’t we? This is an awakening. You’re my ray of morning sunshine.”

And then she couldn’t help herself any longer: she kissed him. He seemed almost to expect it. Or anyway, he knew what to do.

Unfortunately, when Xmary got home, Mimi and David Li Weng were waiting up for her in the living room with their lovely daughter Xiomara. And not one of them looked happy to see her.

“Good evening, young lady,” Mummy said pointedy.

“Hi,” she said back, because she figured she knew what was coming, and it wasn’t really Mummy’s fault. Just the way things were.

“You’ve been out without asking,” Mummy singsonged.

Xmary shrugged. “Yeah. So?”

“Have a seat, please, darling. There are some facts of life that apparently need explaining.”

Sighing, Xmary sat down next to herself, and offered an affectionate pat on the knee. People didn’t have brothers and sisters anymore, but they had their friends, and especially they had themselves. Under other circumstances she might have put an arm over her shoulder— even given herself a little kiss—but here and now she settled for sitting close.

Da cleared his throat, and looked back and forth at his daughter. “Mara, darling, we’ve identified eleven unauthorized duplicates in your network records for this calendar year alone. And the thing about that is, we can only account for ten of them.”

“You scanned my fax records?” She gaped. Why this should surprise or offend her she had no idea. But it did. Was nothing sacred? Was there no privacy at all?

“Where is the other you?” Da pressed.

“I don’t know,” one of her admitted, while the other examined the ceiling.

Da blinked. “You don’t
know
? She ran off? Did something happen to her?”

More firmly: “
I don’t know,
Da. I wish I did.”

“Have you called the police?” Mummy asked. Then, “No, of course you haven’t, dear. The police would have called us, first thing. And your sordid misadventures are nothing you’ll share with the law, are they?”

“Right, Mum,” Xmary said. “I
kill
cops. We all do. It’s all anyone talks about at the pool anymore.”

“Am I supposed to find that funny? Into the fax, both of you. You’re grounded and singled for the month. No copies, no body mods, and your destination lockout will be revived.”

“Mom!” the other Xmary protested. Last year’s lifting of Nescog parental lockouts was the closest she’d ever come to freedom. But not really, since the tariffs would wipe out her allowance if she left the planet or made more than a handful of nonlocal hops. And if Mummy and Da could take away the privilege whenever they felt like it, or track her movements, or possibly (probably?) check her medical trace for fingerprints and foreign substances ...

“I hope you had fun tonight,” she growled to herself. And answered quietly: “Don’t worry. You’re going to love it.”

And then she stepped into the fax, and stepped in again, and the fax did that looking-glass thing where you exited into the same room you’d just left. Except that she was only one Xmary when she stepped out, and after a dizzy moment of integration she understood everything: the pool, the boy, the thing at history class, the fight with Mummy and Da. And she resolved: they could ground her and single her all they liked, but unless they cut off her damn feet they could not keep her away from Feck. Especially on Restoration Day.

“We have much to discuss,” Mummy said, “but perhaps your father ought to call the police first. Love?”

“Yes, my dear.” Da got up off the sofa and traced out a window on a bare patch of wall, right beside Xmary’s head. “Telecom, please. The Denver Metro Police.”

And while the connection was ringing through, the window flashed up headlines, and since Xmary was right there she couldn’t help seeing them. Especially the one that read, KUIPER RAMPAGE: MISSING FRIENDLY PARK ESCAPEES MAY INCLUDE PRINCE BASCAL.

And then it was gone, and Da was talking to some beautiful blond woman in police beige. Xmary staggered to the sofa and plopped down heavily, holding three fresh thoughts in the privacy of her skull. First, that this “rampage” was another volley in Feck’s alleged uprising. Second, that the prince had visited—and disappeared from—Café 1551 on the same night Xmary had. And third, that these events were too bizarre to be unrelated.

And where exactly did that leave Xmary? The Kuiper Belt?

“Gods,” she murmured, then looked up, afraid that Mummy and Da had overheard her and would somehow divine her thoughts. But for once they were paying no attention to her.

Their names and dates in stone engraved,
Their mortal coils in coffins saved,
Their worlds unmade, their streets unpaved,
The last to clear the way, the way,
the last to clear the way.

And through that haze of final tears,
To dam and tame the stream of years,
Had seemed the noblest of careers,
To stretch man’s fleeting day, his day,
to stretch man’s fleeting day.

And now that morning lingers on,
We blink into the sun and yawn,
The joys of night and evening gone,
and tell ourselves we’re gay, we’re gay,
we tell ourselves we’re gay.

— “Cemetery Jingle #3”
BASCAL EDWARD DE TOWAJI LUTUI, age 13

chapter eleven

the long carry

There was no clearly defined “morning” aboard the good ship
Viridity
. The cold had faded with Conrad’s insulation trick, but the heat had continued to build until finally he awoke with a yelp, scrabbling at the itchy, crawling sensation of weightless sweat blobs against his skin. He had no idea what time it was, or how long he’d slept, because the ship’s only chronometer was on Bascal’s control panel in the bridge.

But he had to get up and demirrorize the wrapping again, and while he was up he visited the ’soir. This wasn’t strictly necessary, but if he went back to bed it soon would be. Unfortunately, this was a messy process they really hadn’t worked out yet. You had to peel back the gasket sealing the toilet lid, and then carefully do your business without breaking up the pool of water that clung jiggling at the bottom, by the effluent drain. And then you had to reseal the lid and flush, and inevitably there were droplets of stray liquid—not water—that could only be collected by hand. Thank all the little gods he hadn’t needed to
crap
yet.

So then Conrad had to wash his hands, another elaborate process. Water here was something akin to toothpaste: you squeezed out only as much as you needed, because any more would just get away from you and make a mess. And yeah, there were several globs that he had to chase down and consolidate. They formed a neat little water ball, and it occurred to him that there’d be water-ball fights before long. Was that bad? Should it be prevented somehow? He stuffed the water balls down the drain and plugged it behind them.

By the time he got back to his bed, he was most of the way awake. In zero gee it turned out there was no tossing and turning. Rolling over involved a lot of work with the blankets and straps, and didn’t accomplish much anyway, since the mattress didn’t press hard enough to be uncomfortable or cut off your blood flow. But he wiggled and sighed for a while, trying to put himself back to sleep.

And then he noticed how rapidly the temperature was falling. Not actually cold yet, but the heat that had woken him was gone, and the sweat trapped between his clothes and skin was turning unpleasantly tepid. He’d have to fix that, keep it from getting too cold, or he’d just be getting up again. And again. And he wasn’t sure how long it’d been since he’d last changed clothes, but once he was up he quietly ordered a new set from the fax, changed into them in the cooling darkness, and disposed of his old ones. Then he went to the environment panel and bumped the reflectivity of the cabin’s wrapper from zero percent to fifty percent, hoping that would be close enough to maintain a comfortable temperature. Then he went back to bed, and sighed and wiggled some more.

When he finally gave up on sleeping, some of the other boys had begun to stir. He ruminated on the day ahead: Adventure? Boredom? He should rig up a program to regulate the mirrors automatically, that was one thing. And something needed to be done about that damned bathroom....

When Karl Smoit sat up and rubbed his eyes, Conrad decided that morning had finally arrived, so he got up and retrieved a wellstone sketchplate Bascal had stowed in one of D’rector Jed’s cabinets. The more he thought about it, the more he realized how much work there was to do before
Viridity
would be anything like a stable environment, much less a comfortable one.

Using his pinkie for a stylus, he scribbled on the sketchplate:

To Do List:
Thermostat for Mirrors
Chronometer/Clock
Measure Stored Energy
Sink Hood
Better Light Controls
Water Dispensing Limit
Bathroom Cleanup Tools

By now Karl and Jamil were grumbling at each other over first use of the bathroom, and Preston and Martin were showing signs of getting up, and there were various thumps and rustles from the storage closet where Ho had sequestered himself. That left only Steve Grush asleep— a condition Conrad was inclined to leave him in.

Soon there was breakfast, which Bascal and Xmary joined blearily. Afterward they washed up, and then Xmary announced her schedule, which specified the times for lights-on, lights-off, three meals, an exercise hour and a story hour, and (thankfully) a “laundry check” of unspecified but probably beneficial nature.

“You should add ‘maintenance,’ ” Conrad told her. “I’ve got a long list of issues, and it’ll probably get longer before it gets shorter.”

She nodded, looking annoyingly chipper and perky. “Okay. Maintenance. Does that include cleaning up?”

“Well, we should probably put that down, too.”

She made a note on her sketchplate. “Maintenance. Cleaning. One hour or two?”

“Um, I dunno. Two hours each?”

“The days are going to be long, boyo,” Bascal agreed, sidling up and putting an arm around Xmary. “It’s better to have too much to do than too little. Can I see your list?”

Conrad dug the sketchplate out of his pocket, mimed tossing it to Bascal, and then did toss it when he was sure the
pilinisi
was ready to make the catch. Zero gravity was a new twist on this familiar act, but Conrad correctly intuited that he needed to fire the plate directly at Bascal’s chest, not fast or hard but very straight, in a flat spin for stability. The prince caught it on the first try.

“Yeah,” he said a few seconds later, looking it over and nodding. “Yeah. I’m going to add a few items before you get started. You need more sailing lessons, for example. Every day. And a turn at the helm while I’m doing other things. We really shouldn’t leave it unattended for long periods.”

Resignedly: “Right. I can see that.”

“Well, I’ll go update the master list,” Xmary said, decoupling herself from Bascal’s arm. Then she looked at the two of them and added, “Be nice to each other, all right? Set an example.”

When she was out of earshot, Bascal said, “How did we get so lucky, Conrad? What are the odds?”

“I dunno. Not bad I guess.”

Bascal rolled his eyes. “ ‘Not bad,’ the man says. Not bad. Run the experiment a hundred times, and how many Xmarys do we get?”

“There’s a lot of unhappy people in Denver,” Conrad answered. “You’re popular, and the Constabulary got confused. They just grabbed whoever was next to you. What you’re really asking is, how many people in that position would play along? I’m guessing quite a few.”

“Ah,” the prince said. “Now there’s a romantic notion. You’re a fun guy, Conrad.” He fiddled briefly with the sketchplate and added, “Our
first
order of business—our absolute highest priority—is to do something about our coloration. The sail is transparent, which is good, but you’ve got the cabin all shiny, which is bad. We want to be”—he fluttered a hand—“invisible. A light conduit: photons in one side, out the other.”

Conrad was nodding. With wellstone sensors and emitters readily programmed for it, “invisible” objects were commonplace for certain uses. Many people had invisible toilets, for example, to hide the fact that they had any bodily functions at all. Photons hitting one side were analyzed and absorbed, then re-created on the far side just as though they had traveled through unimpeded. A really
transparent
toilet would simply show off the water and other contents as if they were floating in midair, but an invisible one hid everything, looking like a weak lens, a slight distortion in the air and nothing more.

“The problem is heat,” Conrad said. “We’ve got to hold ours in or we’ll freeze to death.”

“I realize that,” Bascal said, in a testy way that sounded patient but wasn’t. “But the trick is to make the
inner
surface reflective, and the
outer
one invisible. We can even keep the windows clear. One-way mirrors.”

“Oh. All right. That sounds sensible.” Conrad knew about one-way mirrors, another popular programming trick that involved asymmetrical atoms. “Do you know ... how?”

“We’ll work on it,” Bascal said. “I’m not completely sure how it’s done, but we’ve figured out harder things together. Right?”

“Uh, sure. I guess.”

“And Conrad?” Bascal glanced up over the top of the sketchplate.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t work too fast on the rest of this. Stretch it out; make it last. We’re going to be out here a long time, and we need to stay busy.”

That night at story time, Xmary told the tale of the first American flag, and following along in the same theme Karl, who was also American, recited what he could remember of “Paul Revere’s Ride.” Jamil followed up with “Sinbad the Sailor,” which turned out to be the first of many Sinbad stories he knew and promised to tell. It didn’t have much to do with sailing, but entertainment was entertainment.

And then somehow it was Bascal’s turn again—the seating pattern was totally different from yesterday’s— and he was saying, “I’m taking you back, back, back before the Tongans and Europeans had discovered one another, to a time when land powers ruled the coasts of the Pacific, and sea powers ruled its islands.”

He paused for effect—he was a big one on pauses and cadence—and then continued. “On the island of Tongatapu, a special day had arrived: Elders’ Day, and all the people were afraid. The young prince, Polua-le-uli-gana, or Polu to his friends, did not understand.”

“Understand what?” someone asked, as if on cue.

Bascal answered, “The people wouldn’t come out to throw the fishing nets. They refused to race up the coconut palms and be the first one to throw down the most coconuts. They wouldn’t swim in the ponds, or come to the king’s feast. Instead, they stayed hidden until the feast was finished.

“Prince Polu was sad. He didn’t understand why on Elders’ Day his playmates stayed in hiding, or why one of them would never be seen again. When the prince questioned a servant, he got no answer. The servant simply walked away. Prince Polu lived with his royal family at Lapaha, a large village on the main island. The village included many great stone buildings, and even a stone pier jutting out into the lagoon for the king’s ships to use. Many paths led toward this royal village. Many people walked these paths to bring gifts, food, news, and greetings to the prince’s father, King Malietoa. Some people came because they were commanded—some to be honored, others to be punished.

“The prince was tired of all the noise and confusion. He was lonely. Tomorrow had been declared Elders’ Day, and as usual, all of his friends were in hiding. People hurried from task to task with worried looks and sad faces. The prince felt as if they were preparing for a funeral rather than a feast day.

“He slipped away from his bodyguards and walked far from his home until, just as the sun was setting behind the sea, the prince reached Kolovai on the other side of the island. This was his favorite place, a place to see everything but not be seen. He climbed up the steep cliff until he reached his observation post, a large, flat rock that stuck out from the cliff. Here he could see the sky above, the ocean beyond, and the meandering pathway below. The prince rested.

“It was night when voices woke him. The moon was full. The silver of its shining face flowed across the rippled surface of the sea like a ghostly, glowing road. The prince shivered, although the rock beneath him was still sun-warmed. The voices that were once far away were now directly below him. The prince listened.

“ ‘If you could have one wish before you die,’ said the voice of a young boy, ‘what would it be?’

“Another voice answered: ‘I would paddle out beyond the reef and watch the frigate birds fish the open sea. Oh, how I’d love to glide on the winds, higher and higher, and then plunge straight down to spear a fat, juicy fish. I’d swallow it whole, and with a full belly I’d glide again, around and around, closing my eyes and dozing in midair, in the warm sunshine.’

“ ‘How can you talk of food when tomorrow is Elders’ Day?’

“ ‘Stop! Tonight I will not think of tomorrow. Until the sun rises, we are alive. So let us live!’

“But the first boy said, ‘I cannot stop thinking about the horror of tomorrow. I don’t want to die! I don’t want to be eaten!’ There were no more words, just the crying of the one child and the gentle shushing of the other.

“Suddenly, Prince Polu understood. His legs began to tremble, his stomach heaved, and his heart pounded madly and painfully in his chest. On every Elders’ Day one of his friends disappeared. On every Elders’ Day a special feast was prepared for his father. Lesser chiefs from all around the islands—and many from neighboring kingdoms Polu’s father had conquered—came to share the feast. A special animal was roasted. King Malietoa was always given the tender nape of the neck and the rich, flavorful heart. Now the prince realized. ‘The animal I thought was a roasted pig was something else entirely!’

“No wonder his friends hid. No wonder the servants were too ashamed to answer his questions! And Polu knew, deep down in the marrow of his bones, that there were some things around here that needed to change. He shouted out, ‘Brave travelers, listen! Please wait. I must speak with you!’

“Suddenly, the sounds of the night stopped. Silence filled the darkness and echoed in Polu’s ears. ‘I am the king’s own son, Polua-le-uli-gana. I will not harm you. Who are you? Tell me the story of your journey.’

“At first the two young travelers said nothing. The prince shouted again, ‘Speak to me. Perhaps I can save your lives. If you’re marked for death already, I can hardly make things any worse.’

“One of the boys whispered to the other. ‘We have nothing to lose. We might die now if this is some wicked trick. So what? Tomorrow we die in the king’s stone kitchen.’

“The other boy called out, ‘We are from Eua. We were selected from the
matai
’s family. Tomorrow we finish our journey. Tomorrow we meet our death with courage that will honor our family.’

“As the prince listened to these words, his heart nearly broke with sorrow. And then a dangerous plan began to form in his mind. He might lose his life, but he might gain life and pride and freedom for many others. So the prince stepped forward and gave a strange order. ‘Climb this coconut tree that stands between shore and sea. Break off its finest branch. Hurry. Already the sky loses its darkness as the sun draws near. Soon, it will slip above the waves and your time will be over.’