I remember the snowstriders that morning—white birds running across the top of the drifts. Every few seconds, they’d plunge their beaks through the crust and pull out frostfly cocoons to gobble. Like all native Demoth birds, they had no real feathers; instead they were coated in downy clouds of fuzz, giving them the look of ankle-high dust balls with small snowshoed feet.
Suddenly, the striders scree-scree-screeched and took to their wings; they’d spotted a looming shadow floating above the snowscape. Hoar falcon? Kite-manta?
Without a sound, Chappalar landed on the path beside me. Out for an early-morning glide. All by himself. And he had the air of a man who’d be wearing a huge smile, if he were the sort of man who wore huge smiles.
“Good morning, Proctor Faye,” he said. “Lovely day.” Like most older Ooloms, he’d learned English from braingrab lessons originally coded on New Earth. It gave him a la-di-dah mainstream accent that always sounded snooty to my MaryMarch ears.
“Good morning yourself, you,” I told him. “You’re looking like the cat that went down on the canary. Pleasant night, was it? You slept well? In good company?”
His outer ear sheaths flicked closed in a split second, then inched back open—the Oolom equivalent of a blush. “Sé holo leejemm,” he muttered. You hear too much. “Sometimes I find humans disturbingly intuitive.”
“Only the women,” I said. “So you had a willy wag night?”
“I passed an agreeable evening,” he answered primly.
“Sé julo leejedd,” I told him. I’m hearing too little. “Don’t you know Homo saps live for juicy gossip?”
He didn’t reply right away; but he walked with a rare bounce to his step, even for an Oolom. (They always bounce—they’re light, and their glider membranes catch the breeze. On windy days, Ooloms think nothing of linking arms with any human who’s walking the same direction, using you for an anchor to keep from blowing away. At least, that’s the story I get from all the Oolom men who latch on to me in the street.)
Bounce, bounce, bounce. Finally Chappalar broke the silence. “Her name is Maya. Human, but you don’t know her. One hundred and ten years old, but she has never missed a YouthBoost treatment. She is in excellent physical health.”
I snickered. YouthBoost kept us all in “excellent physical health.” If Chappalar mentioned it, he must have been struck by some wonderment of Maya’s condition. Perhaps she was a wide woman.
“Tell Mom-Faye all about it,” I said, taking him gleefully by the arm.
“Tell Mom-Faye my lips are sealed,” he replied, detaching himself pointedly. “Whatever goes on between people is either private or universal. I shall not divulge the private, and you can download the universal yourself.”
By which I suppose he meant picking up some Oolom/ human porn-chips. No need, Chappalar-boy, no need. I’d seen enough of those in my dissolute past to know the basic interspecies geometries. What I wanted now were pure vicarious specifics.
But no matter how I wheedled, Chappalar refused to give blow-by-bump details of the night before. Truth to tell, he didn’t speak much at all. He was too busy smiling, bouncing, soaking up the feel of the thaw. I could guess how his mind was fluttering with the inevitable morning-after speculations. Does she really…What if she…Should I…How soon can we…
“You’re so cute,” I told him.
Maybe he didn’t hear—he kept closing his ear-lids tight as if he wanted to be alone with his thoughts, then opening them wide as if he wanted to embrace every sound in the world.
Christ, he made me want to fall fresh in love myself. Good weather for it too. I broke into a jog to keep up with his bounce.
The pump station formed one wall of the Cabot Park petting zoo—three stories high (the wall), fifty meters long, covered with a glossy mosaic of a woodland that had never existed. By some rare magic, this forest combined Earth cedars, Divian sugar-saps, and Demoth raspfeather palms. (Truth to tell, I’d never seen a real Earth tree outside VR; just a few potted saplings at the NatHist Museum in Pistolet. No Demoth government would be daft enough to endanger the local ecology, letting people plant alien trees out in the open.)
The petting zoo had the same kind of contrived cross-mix as the trees in the mosaic. From Earth, donkeys and sheep; from the Divian homeworld, domesticated orts (chicken-sized pterodactyls, given to annoying squawks but gentle with children); and from Demoth itself, fuzz-worms and leaners. (Fuzzworms resemble rolls of frayed brown carpet—boring to look at, but furry-soft to pet. Leaners are herd animals, like morose short-legged goats with the hides of armadillos. In the wild, they like to rest by leaning against rocks and trees; in the zoo, they flop themselves against the legs of visitors, gravely staring up into your face with a wrinkled, “You don’t mind, do you?” expression.)
As Chappalar and I crossed the zoo grounds, two leaners followed us…one clearly hoping we’d brought sponge-corn from the concession stand, the other a robot chaperoning the first. Every real creature in Cabot Park had a look-alike robot companion, programmed to make sure normal animal behavior didn’t become too much of a nuisance. If, for example, the leaner chose me as its resting post, all well and good (apart from mud stains and leaner smell on my parka); but if the beast went for Chappalar, the robot would cut in like Dads at a dance party, standing sentry between Chappalar and the leaner till the animal went elsewhere.
Here’s the thing: an adult Homo sap could hold the leaner’s weight easily. Chappalar, though, would be knocked ass over teakettle and possibly crushed. Leaners never got it through their dumpy heads that even though Ooloms looked tall and strong, they were actually breakably light. Ergo the need for robot lifeguards—otherwise, the League of Peoples would ask why we let potentially dangerous animals get rough on our sentient citizens.
The League had very strict rules against putting sentients at needless risk. Either you followed those rules, or you got declared non-sentient yourself.
You didn’t want that. The League also had very strict rules for dealing with dangerous non-sentient creatures.
The door to the pump-station building was locked. Routine safety precaution? Or was some paranoid someone truly worried about saboteurs tampering with the city water supply? No. Most likely the staff locked the door for fear some leaner might rest against it and accidentally push it open. Before long, the plant would be full of orts and donkeys, not to mention sheep drowning themselves in the filtration vats. Who wants woolly water?
The mosaicked wall had an intercom screen embedded beside the door; I could easily call someone to let us in. But what would Chappalar think? We’d agreed on an unannounced visit…not an all-out catch-them-with-their-pants-down raid, but still we didn’t want to give the staff time to prepare a show. (“Oh yes, Ms. Proctor ma’am, we surely need all the cash you can funnel our way.”)
I glanced at Chappalar. He’d taken his cue from the leaners and propped himself back-against the building’s wall. A creamy dreamy expression settled on his face as he started to turn pointillist, color-matching the teeny mosaic tiles of gloss-fired clay. The perfect picture of a man in reverie over his new girlfriend…not at all waiting to see if I was too wimp-gutless to use my link-seed.
Closing my eyes, I reluctantly reached out to the world-soul: my first deliberate brain-to-byte contact with the collective machine intelligence that permeated every digital circuit on Demoth…including the axonal vines through my brain and whatever computerized locking device kept the pump-station door closed. Faye Smallwood of the Vigil, I thought, silently projecting the words toward the door. Please grant me entrance. (The same formal way I used to speak to my wrist-implant…which, by the by, had got removed during müshor, to avoid radio interference between it and my link-seed. Since then, my wrist had felt so indecent-naked, I’d taken to wearing a rack of cheap bracelets.)
My Open sesame signal traveled like radio fizz out through my link-seed and into the closest datasphere receiver cell, then shunted through a slew of relays to the world-soul c
ore. My identity got verified; likewise the identity of the lock I wanted to open. (The Vigil could pop locks in public buildings, but not private residences.) In less than a second, the door gave a soft click. I pulled it open and offered Chappalar a weak smile…mostly sick relief my head hadn’t exploded.
Without losing his dreamy expression, Chappalar said, “Next time before you open a door, tap into any available security cameras to see what’s on the other side. On my first scrutiny, I nearly got impaled by a forklift that happened to be passing. The door was locked specifically to prevent such accidents.” He smiled and gestured toward the entranceway. “After you.”
No forklifts inside…just a fiddly-dick locker room where workers stored their street clothes. Some of the staff had hung private trinkets on their lockers—a photo of someone’s family, a wire-painted miniature of the Blessed Mother Mary, the green-on-gray insignia of Bonaventure’s premier boat-racing team—but overall, the room had a spartan feel, whitewashed concrete, sucked dry of personality.
“Is there a city ordinance against dressing up your work area?” I asked Chappalar.
“Pump stations have to meet sanitation standards,” he replied. “Some plant managers interpret those standards more rigorously than others.”
“You know the manager then?”
“I know everyone who works for the city. You will too.”
I’d already memorized the names of plant staff, and downloaded their files from the civic databanks. (Not through my link-seed. Through the one hard-copy feedbox in the Vigil offices.) The manager of Pump Station 3 was Elizabeth Tupper, age sixty-two, employed by the city works since humans took over Bonaventure. No complaints registered against her from above or below: she’d never screwed up badly enough for higher-ups to notice, and never harassed her subordinates to the point where they lodged an official protest.
You could say the same for almost every bureaucrat in town. I wished the employment records would say things like, “Plodding but competent,” or “Goat-wanking control freak.” Too bad they didn’t let me make up the checkboxes on performance-review forms.
Chappalar moved ahead of me, holding his arms crossed against his chest so his gliders were folded tight to his body. The walkway forward was camel-eye narrow; if he hadn’t trimmed his sails, they would have brushed against lockers on both sides, knocking off all the hung decorations. I followed, tucking my arms in too—I didn’t have Chappalar’s wingspan, but how often do I have to use the word “Amazonian” before you figure out I’m a big old girl?
Probably three times less than I’ve used it already. Redundancy, thy name is Faye.
Beyond the lockers lurked the vat room: a chamber the size of a skating rink, dominated by massive metal tanks. Water from the local aquifer got pumped up from below, fed through a line of processing vats and squirted out the other end, purified of toxic metals and native Demoth microbes. This station was supposed to have three working lines of four vats each; but the two oldest lines had been jinxed with mechanical gremlins over the past year, forcing the staff to hammer away at stubborn pumps, jammed stir-paddles, and hiccuppy valves. Scarcely a week passed that one line didn’t conk out for a day or so…and over last Diaspora weekend, both bad lines went tits up together.
No wonder city council wanted to rip out the old and put in state-of-the-art replacements. The only question was why they’d let the place degrade so badly to begin with. Elizabeth Tupper, plant manager, must have really cranked someone off.
The moment Chappalar and I entered, we could tell which two lines were on the futz: the ones that were half-dismantled, their high-up access panels open to expose wiring and plastic tubes. A pair of wheelstand stairways had been rolled up to the guts of the nearest vat, as if two workers had been poking around side by side, consulting with each other on how to get a bit more service out of the heap of junk…but no one was there now.
No one anywhere in sight.
I turned to Chappalar. “They’re all on rest break?”
He shrugged. “Could be a staff meeting.”
“The regular staff meeting is tomorrow.”
Chappalar would have known the schedule if he’d done his homework on the plant…but then, he’d been busy playing lose the spoon with Maya, hadn’t he? Anyway, this scrutiny had got docketed under my name, so I was the one supposed to know the facts. In his way, Chappalar was giving me a vote of confidence—trust I would cover the background trivia so he wouldn’t have to.
“Even if it’s not time for the regular meeting,” Chappalar said, “Ms. Tupper might have called an impromptu one. Perhaps she assembled the crew so she could distribute a memo on putting away one’s tools.” He rolled his eyes. I was beginning to get a picture of Ms. Memo-Making Tupper. “Or,” Chappalar went on, “they may have received a delivery of spare parts at the other door, and everyone’s helping unload.”
Possible. Plausible. Considering the rat’s banquet of pipe and cable strewn round the floor, they must send out for spare parts frequently. Still…the place seemed needle-nick quiet. And abandoned. I was getting a case of the hinkies, some of that “human intuition” Chappalar grumbled about.
“Let’s keep on our toes,” I told him, keeping my voice low. “This is making me edgy.”
He gave me a look—a studiedly neutral look reserved for first-time proctors who talk like escapees from a melodrama. Then again, his inner ear-sheaths lowered a fraction, letting him listen better for suspicious sounds. He was giving me the benefit of the doubt, even if he thought I was overreacting.
Warily, I moved forward. Chappalar followed. As we drew level with the stairways up to the vat controls, I yielded to impulse and climbed the steps—up two full stories above the ground till I was face-to-face with a jumble of fiber optics and plumbing.
Chappalar flapped up beside me and landed lightly on the other set of stairs. His head suddenly jerked; he put a hand to his cheek. “Wet.” He looked down and pointed to a black poly pipe just below eye level; it had a pinhole in it, shooting up a thin spray of water that had hit him in the face.
“That can’t be good,” I said.
“Not unless you’re in need of a shower.” He ducked around the spray and leaned forward to peer at the pipe. “There’s more corrosion here than just that pinhole. Look at this wire. See where the insulation is missing?”
I leaned in beside him. Yes: specks of damage on several wires, on the pipe, and on the readout of a nearby pressure monitor. I could pick up something else too—a sharp scent that curled my nose hairs.
“Acid,” I whispered.
“What do you mean?”
“I can smell it.”
“Oh.” Ooloms flip-flop in their respect for the Homo sap nose. Sometimes they act as if they don’t believe in smell at all, as if we’re shamming our ability to use a sense they don’t have. Other times they treat us with something close to awe: astounding creatures that we are, privy to profound sensations that are hidden from their race.
This time, Chappalar decided to be impressed. “What type of acid is it?” he asked.
“Don’t know.” I could have downloaded the world-soul’s library of smells, to compare this pickly odor to the ones on file; but what would be the point? Showing off to Chappalar? And did I want to fill my brain with a catalogue of bitter stinks?
Our cowardly Faye, rationalizing. To avoid taking another kick at the data-tumor can.
“Who cares what acid it is?” I said briskly. “The question is where it came from.”
Chappalar looked disappointed at the fickleness of my nose; but he turned back to the innards of the control panel. “I can’t imagine why anything here would leak acid. Pumping and filtration equipment shouldn’t use strong chemicals. I suppose there might be batteries, for backup power supply if the main current goes out…”
He scanned the pipes upward, searching for a source of the spill. I didn’t. I’d memorized schematics of all the equipment in the plant; nothing used so much as a dribble of h
igh-corrosive.
“This is all wrong,” I muttered. “I’m going to call Protection Central.”
“Faye.” You didn’t need sensitive Oolom ears to hear the reproof in Chappalar’s voice. “This is your first scrutiny,” he said, “and you’re ready to see everything as suspicious. I was the same when I started. But think—this is just a water-treatment plant, in a quiet city on a quiet planet. Nothing sinister goes on here. My guess is the workers were just cleaning out pipes with an acid wash. They spilled some, everyone rushed to the first-aid station or the shower, and…”
His ear-lids suddenly opened wider.
“What?” I whispered. A moment later I heard the sound too: footsteps tapping toward us from the far end of the room.
Chappalar gave me a gentle smile, with only a hint of I-told-you-so. “Hello!” he called. “We’re from the Vigil.”
The footsteps sped up. In a moment, two figures hove into view at the bottom of the stairs below us—a man and a woman, both human, wearing the standard gray overalls of city maintenance staff. They looked mainstreet-ordinary: in their thirties, one Asian, one Cauc, both with shoulder-length black hair.
Just one problem: I’d gone through the files on everyone who worked here. The files included ID photos; and these two people weren’t in the pictures.
“Good morning,” Chappalar was saying. “We’ve come to look around…”
He began to lift his arms as if he intended to launch off the stairs and glide down to the newcomers. Bolt-fast I grabbed him, pulling him back. He gave me a wounded look. “Please, Faye; this kind of behavior…”
That’s when the folks on the ground drew their pistols.
I only had an instant to recognize the weapons: jelly guns, able to shoot a blob of sticky goo up to forty meters where it would splatter on impact. Police loaded them with clots of neural-scrambling syrup—even if the shot didn’t hit you dead on, one tiny splash touching bare skin would send frazzled messages to your brain, interfering with most motor functions. Petit mal on a plate.
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