Crache

by Mark Budz

  “I heard about the bruja,” the chavo goes on. He drops a handful of sponge berries into the sieve bucket in front of him, which looks a little like a square vegetable colander attached to a conveyor belt.

  The orange-and-pink berries, produced inside a gengineered species of sea sponge, are an upper-clade delicacy, the vegetable equivalent of caviar. The sponges are planted underwater in precise, evenly spaced rows one-half meter apart. The spacing is important. It maintains the optimum growing conditions for each plant, while making it possible for a line of workers to harvest the berries. Picking the berries is as much an art as it is work. Size, shape, and consistency are critical. Also, the berries bruise easily, require a delicate touch to prevent damage. Destroy too many, and a worker’s wages for the day get docked. For that reason, and because the water is too deep for children under the age of thirteen, most of the pickers are women and older men.

  Pedrowski is an exception, one of only four machos working this vat. Somehow—maybe because of the light touch he developed pushing paper around—he’s landed a job most single braceros in their twenties covet. Not only is the ratio of men to women weighted in their favor, but the gentleness of their fingers is a major selling point, and hints at additional anatomical sensitivities.

  L. Mariachi reaches underwater and slips his hand into the sponge in front of him, feeling his way along the smooth inner wall. He starts with the topmost berries, probing, touching, plucking the ones that are ripe and leaving those that aren’t as he makes his way deeper, all the way to his elbow.

  With a grunt he straightens, berries in hand, and sets them in his basket. “What did you hear?” He flicks water from his hand, at the same time signing open a datawindow on his wraparounds to check the bio the chavo’s broadcasting.

  Angel Pedrowski. Married. One son, two daughters. A family man/student who’s going for his doctorate in postecocaust social Lamarckism. Responsible. Not the kind of person to get sucked in by rumors, let alone spread them.

  “I heard you played like a madman. Like you were speaking in tongues with your fingers.”

  The conveyor belt frame, which moves on rubber wheels, creeps forward one-half meter. “Who told you that?”

  “My son heard it from a friend.”

  One of the gangstas probably, Balta or Oscar. “What else did you hear?”

  “That you helped cure the woman.”

  L. Mariachi shakes his head. “It wasn’t me, it was the bruja. She called her soul back.”

  “You’re too modest.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “She might never have come back if she hadn’t heard the music. It reminded her of this life. All of the good things in the world. Family. Friends.”

  They’ve fallen a few steps behind the conveyor. L. Mariachi slogs forward to the next plant, careful where he puts his feet. The grid is slippery in places. At least once a day, someone falls.

  “There’s something else I heard.”

  L. Mariachi bends forward. Winces at a dull jab of pain in his lower back. If not for the painkillers Num Nut finally softwired into him, no way he’d be able to work. In another week or two it will be the same for every bracero as they try to ignore the pulled muscles, inflamed joints, pinched nerves, and slipped disks they suffer from working ten-hour days, six days a week.

  Pedrowski cuts a quick glance around, then drops his voice, wary of bitcams and acoustic spores. “Word is, the politicorp made the woman sick on purpose.”

  L. Mariachi doesn’t look at him. He adjusts his stance around the sponge swaying just below the surface. “Why would they do that?”

  Pedrowski switches the hand he’s picking with so he can edge closer. “To make an example out of her.”

  “For what?” Dip, pick, straighten. “Far as I know, she didn’t do shit.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Her family has a reputation for causing trouble. Roughing up worker liaisons, complaining about living and working conditions, or the price of local goods and services. That kind of thing. So the patrón wants to send a message, make sure they don’t get out of hand from the start. That way, the rest of the workers will be docile—afraid to speak up.”

  “Maybe it was an accident,” L. Mariachi says.

  “And maybe it wasn’t. There have been reports that a number of workers in other migrant communities have come down sick, too. She’s not the only one.”

  L. Mariachi understands now why Pedrowski is so hung up on Lejandra. She’s not just one sick woman, she’s a whole cause.

  “People are starting to get fed up.” Pedrowski puffs out his chest, full of bravado. “They aren’t going to take it anymore.”

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  “You took matters into your own hands, ese.”

  “I played a few songs. That’s all.” He shrugs, hoping to downplay his role.

  “You made a difference, compadre, you helped out. A lot of workers wouldn’t do that.”

  “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “See? That’s what I’m talking about. You have a conscience. A sense of duty.”

  For some reason the chavo insists on seeing him as someone he’s not. Like he’s got a personal interest in turning him into a hero, someone others look up to and admire. Worse, he also seems intent on associating L. Mariachi with João and the gangstas, identifying him as one of them.

  “What do you want?” L. Mariachi hisses between gritted teeth. The slosh of pond scum, the centripetal thrum of circulating pumps, and the forced-air whoosh of the big ventilation fans will make it difficult to pick up their conversation but he doesn’t want to take any chances. Until now, what they’ve been talking about could be regarded as nothing more than the usual grumbling of workers, dissing the system, or whining about perceived injustices. Crap that will blow over in a couple of days when they’re too tired to do anything between shifts except eat and sleep.

  Pedrowski doesn’t answer immediately. He waits to speak until the conveyor hydraulics kick in, noisily cycling a fresh batch of empty baskets to the line of workers.

  “Some of the vat workers are planning to file a protest for unsafe working conditions.” Pedrowski speaks quickly in the momentary lull. “You know, contamination by hazardous chemicals or biologicals. Radiologicals. Pherions. Viruses. That kind of thing.”

  “File a protest with who?” As migrants, the braceros have pretty much forfeited any civil and legal rights they might have in a local clade. Add to this the fact that they’re dirt poor—that they can’t even afford to retain a pro bono attorney because they’d still have to pay the court costs—and they are more or less hosed when it comes to any sort of judicial action.

  Pedrowski mops his forehead with the loose sleeve of his vat suit. “A-P-E-S,” he says.

  “APES?” L. Mariachi shakes his head, has never heard of the org. Sweat tickles his lips. He licks the corner of his mouth—tastes salt and the metallic chalkiness of the witch’s brew of soluble minerals and proteins concocted to fertilize the plants.

  “The Alliance to Protect Endangered Species.” Pedrowski ladles his berries into the empty colander that grinds to a halt in front of him.

  “The organization was established several years before the ecocaust to save wild chimps and gorillas,” Num Nut informs him over his cochlear implant.

  Not exactly a ringing endorsement: there are no more chimps and gorillas. They all became collateral damage in the global meltdown that enabled the Sahara to annex the rest of Africa and huge sections of Asia.

  “In addition to endangered species advocacy,” Num Nut says, as if reading from a PR release, “the clade-independent org also works to recover and preserve the cultural memes of extinct ethnic groups, in the hope that they might one day be reconstituted and returned to full viability.”

  “Right,” L. Mariachi mutters.

  Pedrowski takes a moment to tighten the seal on his waders. “If we meet the UN legal definition for an at-risk culture, we could be reclassif
ied as endangered.”

  So, the plan is for APES to foot the legal bill. “But a class action suit could take years to resolve.”

  “Not if we get an injunction, or an investigation. Then maybe we’ll start getting some answers.”

  The conveyor belt lurches forward, signaling that their short break is over. “What happens if you don’t?”

  Pedrowski strokes his mustache, covering his mouth with his fluid-puckered hand. “We go on strike.”

  L. Mariachi blinks, takes a moment to digest this.

  “If the patrón won’t take care of us workers,” Pedrowski asserts, “we have to take care of ourselves. Look out for our own best interests.”

  “So how do I fit in?” L. Mariachi says, unclear exactly what’s being asked of him.

  Pedrowski digs his hand into another sponge, determined to look busy. “We need supporters, organizers, advocates. Workers who aren’t afraid to take a risk for the greater good.”

  “I don’t know,” L. Mariachi hedges, noncommittal. He doesn’t feel comfortable getting involved and resents being pressured. All he did was get roped into playing some music. He didn’t think it would lead to anything. Not this, that’s for sure. It almost makes him wonder if he’s being bullshitted. If Angel Pedrowski really is an activist—or if maybe he’s working for the patrón, looking for malcontents and trying to draw him out so he can be blacklisted.

  “What about the bruja?” L. Mariachi asks, teasing open a sponge. “You talked to her?”

  Pedrowski sniffs, his mustache arching in disdain. “She’s gone.”

  “Where?” It’s not like there’s anyplace she can go outside of el tambo and the EZ.

  Pedrowski straightens, shrugs, turns his head from side to side like he’s loosening the muscles in his neck and shoulders. “Rumor has it she transformed herself into a bird and flew away.”

  “She’s not a bracero?”

  “No. According to João, she came from Front Range City.”

  Which means she has access to antiphers and antisense blockers that allow her to move freely between clades. Maybe even different ecotectural systems.

  “Think about it.” Pedrowski reaches down for a second scoop. “That’s all I ask.”

  L. Mariachi nods. Tentative, halfhearted enough to signal that he’s not making any promises. Not yet. Not when the patrón could be eavesdropping.

  He gets back to work, falls into a rhythm that frees up his mind for contemplation. It feels good, making a difference in someone’s life. But maybe that’s just the lingering thrill of getting a chance to play again after he thought that part of his life was ancient history, never to be revisited. He can barely remember the last time he’d purged himself, poured out his heart and soul the way he would a smelly old bedpan. In spite of the dogged pain in his left hand, he feels cleaner than he has in ages. Aired out like a musty, moth-eaten sheet that still needs to be mended.

  It wouldn’t surprise him if the politicorp was responsible for the inexplicable ailment. Patróns did crap like that. It was all part of a carefully orchestrated program of intimidation. Old-world caucs getting in touch with their inner Aryan. Reasserting their sense of superiority and entitlement. Oppressing the working class and waxing nostalgic about free market capitalism or laissez faire colonialism.

  What about his encounter with the Blue Lady? Could the patrón have masterminded that? A ruse to try to get him to incriminate himself or others? It’s possible, based on his public bio and his brief history as a street kid. But it would be a long shot. He never told any adults about his belief in the Blue Lady. Only a few other street kids like him, orphans and runaways who never knew his real name. And it was a long time ago.

  If this incarnation of the Blue Lady is real, why would she reveal herself to him now, at the nadir of his existence? Does this mean, after all this time, that she’s forgiven him for his loss of faith? For the anger, bitterness, and epithets he hurled at her like stones when she refused to grant him what he wanted? Or has she come back to punish him for blaming her for everything that went wrong in his life, for spitting on her memory when he was really spitting on himself and what he had become?

  His throat tightens. “Where are you?” he murmurs.

  No answer. Just like before, she never shows up when he wants her to. Saints never do. He’s learned that much. He knows now to wait, to be patient. No different from courting a virgin. Sniff after a chocha too much, and the heat of desire will transform it into a maximum security vault, tighter than the holiest of holies. Access denied. Any further communion between them will be on her terms.

  “That’s all right.” He laughs quietly to himself. “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

  After all, he’s a cripple. Career challenged. He’s hit his glass ceiling, isn’t rising any higher in life than the domed vat that’s got him boxed in.

  That’s what the chavo doesn’t realize. He’s young enough, educated enough, to believe there’s a way out. He’s not like the rest of them who are trapped here. He sees himself as different. Smarter. Immune to the same psychological pitfalls.

  They all thought that about themselves, at the start. They thought being a bracero was temporary. A job they could stop doing at any point, just walk away and go back to school, or drive a taxi, or whatever else came along.

  Except nothing else ever came along. After a while, it was too late to do anything different. And before they knew it, it had become a way of life.

  That’s what makes the migrants a community. The shared knowledge that they’re all caught in the same situation. No one is any better or any worse. They’ve all swallowed their pride. Bitten back on their hatred of the system. Let go of their longing for middle- or upper-clade respectability. Stuffed these feelings into a mental closet or swept them under a carpet of resignation.

  Que viven los mojados!

  The old battle cry sounds hollow. The slogan empty and gutted. A mockery of the defiance it once embodied.

  Is that why the Blue Lady returned to him? To stir up the mud of complacency he’s mired in? Remind him of what it feels like to struggle?

  Hell. It’s been too long since he fought for anything—or against anything. He swore off idealism the day his hand was trashed. Activism is a conceit of youth, reserved for people who have a future, something to look forward to. Why choose him to fight the battle?

  His head aches like a motherfucker. Almost as bad as his fingers knotted around a cluster of crushed berries.

  Maybe that’s why she appeared to him after so long. He’s always been a glutton for punishment. Can’t get enough.

  This is no different. It’s like he’s addicted to affliction. He just hopes the pain is as sweet as it used to be, that it’s got enough sugar to dilute the quinine that’s replaced the blood pumping through his veins.

  19

  FEEDBACK

  Fola’s fingers uncurl from the missing cross. In its absence the ICM eyescreens press against her face, cold and dense as lead.

  “I need to open an outside comlink,” she tells Pheidoh.

  “To who?”

  “Xophia.” The IA should have the com frequency for the shuttle from the earlier transmission. She’s tired of waiting to hear back from Ephraim on the status of the shuttle. When is it scheduled to arrive? What are the conditions onboard? Are they worse? They must be. If so, how much worse?

  Other questions gnaw at her, sharp, ulcerous.

  If the shuttle arrives before the evacuees, what happens to the workers? How does she bring the refugees onto the station without contaminating the quarantine zone? If the evacuees arrive before the shuttle, what happens to the refugees? What if they can’t be safely brought aboard the station? What then? They can’t be diverted to another colony. They can’t go back.

  “Who are you?” the pilot says, squinting through narrowed eyes.

  “Fola.” Her name seems to stick to the roof of her mouth. “I’m helping Ephraim. He can’t . . . he’s busy right no
w.”

  “You a refugee?”

  “No. I mean, not anymore. I used to be. But now I’m a worker on the Mymercia construction station.”

  “Right.” He relaxes a bit, some of the tension easing at the corners of his mouth. “You ever done this before?”

  “What?” The question derails her.

  “I thought so.” He massages his face. His speech isn’t the only thing about him that’s gruff. His beard is a tangle, his hair a thin, bristly patch. A month’s growth in six months, his metabolism slowed during the trip by semistasis drugs. “The main thing to keep in mind when we arrive is don’t get fancy. That’s when mistakes happen and things go wrong. You know what I’m saying? No relatives or friends who could get in the way, or be a distraction. Keep it low-key, low-profile, and everything’ll be just fine. Slicker than snot.”

  “You don’t understand. I’m not—right now I just need to talk to Xophia. That’s all. It’s about the disease.” Maybe if she passes on what she knows about the quanticles, that will help Xophia. A vague, grasping hope.

  “We’re still twelve hours out,” the pilot goes on. “That gives you some time to prepare—make sure everything’s good to go.”

  She shakes her head. “You can’t dock yet.”

  “Come again?”

  “The ecotecture here is failing. The warm-blooded plants are dying. Life-support on the asteroid is down and the onsite construction crew is being evacuated. You have to hold off for a while.”

  “We don’t have a while.” He shakes his head. “We’re carrying one extra person. Burned up all our resources. We’re running on empty. Besides, most of us are half-dead or will be by the time we get there. If we don’t dock and get some medical attention we aren’t going to make it.”

  Fola blinks as the image of the pilot is replaced by a bitcam window showing the QZ.

  “I thought you should know that Kerusa plans to start shuttling workers from the surface to the station in an hour to two,” Pheidoh says.

  “What happens when they get here?” The pace to set up the quarantine zone has increased in the past twenty minutes.