by Sara Zaske
GREEN
a short story by Sara Zaske
sarazaske.wordpress.com
GREEN
Copyright 2012 Sara Zaske
All rights reserved.
~
~
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, or persons living or deceased is entirely coincidental.
GREEN
A hiss of disapproval greeted Luis Romero and his date when they walked into the restaurant. Luis tightened his grip on Mira's arm as he led her to their table, but she just smiled back at the offended faces, like a wide-eyed schoolgirl out for her first dinner at a fancy restaurant.
Luis didn’t understand their aversion. He loved looking at Mira. She was green—so different than any color Luis had seen on Earth. The trendy Philots restaurant was frequented by elite of Mezotia, so there were quite a few diners who were even paler than him, but some still bore light greenish marks on their skin, signs that they were once from a lower class.
Mira was the only one in the room who was a full-on, rich, shimmering green. On Mezotia, Luis knew, it was the color of poverty. Still, Luis couldn’t help marveling at her beauty. Her skin was the color of a lush tropical plant, her long, wavy hair like palm leaves, her finger nails like small clovers—even the whites of her eyes had a faint greenish glow.
As he pulled out her chair, Luis couldn't help wondering about the color underneath her thin gauzy dress. Was the skin lighter there like tan lines? Or was it darker like a plant that has been in the shade too long?
He sat down and willed the thought away, reminding himself that across from him was perhaps the most well-respected civil rights activist in the known-universe. Mira Milanek had been compared to Martin Luther King to Gandhi, to even the slave revolt martyr, Heliande, from the Sigma galaxy, and here he was ogling her like she was just some girl.
Mira looked at him expectantly. What were they talking about right before they had walked in? The plight of her people? The color oppression on Mezotia? Fortunately, a wasabi-colored waiter with a thin mustache interrupted the silence by asking Mira if she would like a bowl of dirt.
“Why yes, thank you,” Mira said. “I’ll have the Otik nitrates with the Niphanium mushrooms.”
Luis ordered a bottle of wine, announcing distinctly: “Chateau Neuf du Pape 2212.” Heads turned. Wine was a rarity on Mezotia. It cost the equivalent of $10,000, and he added to the effect by ordering the imported Texan steak: price: $5,000.
Around them, tables buzzed with nervous talk, and Luis distinctly heard the Mezotian words for “mirage bandit,” an insult for off-world traders. He didn’t mind. They were here to draw attention. Luis looked around, easily picking out his planted reporters from among the dining crowd. Their swampy complexions and empty tabletops gave them away.
For the past year, Luis had been negotiating this "date" over expensive multi-satellite relay. All just so that he could eat a corvalen fruit with the great Mira Milanek in public. The corvalen only grew in the rare oasis on this otherwise barren, desert planet, and it cost upward of $2 million for one tiny mouthful because it was rumored to have life-extending properties. Naturally, the wealthy, white-skinned class on Mezotia guarded it fiercely.
But if Luis could crack open the corvalen trade, he would be a zillionaire, maybe even a zillionaire who lived forever. He would join the upper echelons at Gama Corp, get a personal space shuttle—hell, his own space carrier. He could finally buy that villa he'd had his eye on, and no doubt he could have any woman he wanted...
Mira was watching a well-dressed couple at the next table, who were making a show of eating slowly. The man had stuffed his substantial stomach into an Earth-style tuxedo, but it was impossible to disguise the green patches on his white skin. He looked moldy. His bejeweled wife wore heavy makeup and a Victorian dress that thankfully left all her moldiness to the imagination.
The couple were wholly absorbed in cutting their meat into tiny pieces. It was probably the same Texan steak Luis had just ordered. After light years in deep-freeze, it would taste little better than shoe leather—expensive shoe leather. Still, after being away from home for so long, he craved it. Mira didn't seem so sure. She was staring at it intently but with more curiosity than desire. The woman glanced up nervously and shifted her plate away. Luis stifled a laugh at the childish move. On Mezotia, eating was serious business.
He turned to Mira. “You know you can order anything you like. I have an expense account.”
“You never really lose the hunger for it, do you?" Mira asked in careful English. "Even if you are like me and have had the coloro—how do you say, the uh, green gene?”
“Chlorophyll,” he said.
“The chlor-a-ful,” she repeated. “Not that we are ever really hungry. The scientists made it so we can get all we need from sun, water, a little nitrates now and then.” Mira glanced at the next table again. “But the taste. I think I would like the taste.”
“Well, why don’t you try it?”
“Oh no!” She patted her stomach. “Suddenly eating something so rich can upset the stomach. I don't want to make an ugly scene.”
Luis realized there might be more to those dirty looks than plain prejudice. No one wanted their expensive night out ruined by a vomiting civil rights advocate.
“I don’t think you could make an ugly scene if you tried,” he said.
“Now you try to be charming,” she said. “I can make a very nasty scene when I want to.”
With a slight sniff, the wasabi-waiter announced the arrival of the wine. Eyes turned again to their table with the pop of the cork, and Luis made sure to drag out the ritual of wine sniffing and swirling that spanned a millennia of business deals.
After the waiter left, Luis leaned across the white tablecloth, making Mira also lean in, as he knew she would. “I have to know, aren’t you afraid to do this?”
“Don’t be silly. We can drink wine! It is just like rotten fruit—”
“No, I mean—” Luis lowered his voice. “The corvalen.”
“Oh! Still just a fruit. I do not believe the stories they tell, Mr. Romero. I assure you it will not kill me instantly.”
“Then, I don’t understand why no one of your, uh, color has ever tried it before. I mean they do grow on trees, right?”
"Rare, heavily guarded trees," Mira said. "Besides, it is very obvious when someone has taken a corvalen. If you don't do it legitimately, they will kill you."
"But I thought it made you... immortal?" Luis felt silly just saying it. He had put all his faith in a battered copy of True Mezotian Myths he had picked up at Another Country bookstore back when he was a student in Berlin. And here he had chased down the story of the corvalen all the way to Mezotia, a whole other world.
Really it didn't matter if the corvalen could make you live forever. People just needed to believe it was true, and for that they would pay a lot. Still, for some reason, he didn't want Mira to laugh at him.
Before Mira could reply, the waiter arrived with their food. In front of Mira, he placed a low bowl filled with a mound of dirt ringed by small white mushrooms. As expected, Luis’s steak looked like the sole of a boot, a very small boot.
Without a word, Mira started eating by pressing her wet thumb into the soil and sticking it into her mouth. Though she didn’t make a face, he could tell by the way she washed each thumbfull down with a healthy drink of wine that she didn’t enjoy it much.
He couldn't stand it. “You think I’m crazy, don't you? About the corvalen and immortality?”
“No, you are right. The corvalen will keep you from getting old and sick, but it doesn't make you bullet proof." She smiled then, like sunlight breaking
through a forest. "So you are not crazy—at least not for that reason.”
“Oh, I know. You think I am a greed-driven, mirage-bandit,” he said, only half-teasing. “You of all people shouldn't be so prejudiced.”
The smile disappeared. “Not prejudiced, but not stupid either, Mr. Romero.”
“Please call me Luis,” he said. “And you? You don't have any ulterior motives for coming to dinner with me? More wine?”
“Yes, please,” she said, holding out her glass. “Of course you and your expense account will help my cause, but I know you will want a lot in return. I will not let you take advantage of my people. We will not simply exchange one oppressor for another.”
“Are you trying to change the terms of the deal?” Luis kept his voice even by concentrating on slicing his steak. “Because if you are, I could walk out of here right now. Leave you with the bill. That might be a little hot for you.”
Unfazed, Mira licked a finger free of dirt. “And I could say an alien took advantage of me. No matter my color, the Mezotian dislike of aliens is strong. They will take my side. They will love an excuse to cut off your trade group.”
Anger made Luis swallow his barely chewed steak too quickly. Gasping at the lump in his throat, he reached for his water. Mira stopped him, placing her hand on top of his. Seen from the outside, the gesture probably appeared romantic.
“Relax,” she said. “We will talk more about it after dessert.”
Luis swallowed, struggling to recover his composure. “There will be no re-negotiation. I simply will not order the corvalen.”
She frowned, releasing his hand. “I think it is you who are frightened. Perhaps you have not really considered the implications of living forever.”
“What could possibly be wrong with it so long as you are healthy?”
“Well, first you will have to eat again, not just like you Earth people do, but the corvalen, one dose is not enough. And once you start down that path, you want more, you need more, and then there is the end of your peaceful life. Work, struggle, fight, and more work, just to eat, more and more. You know of what I speak, of course. You are a capitalist.”
A grass-colored busboy arrived to clear their plates. Luis had only managed to stomach a third of his steak, but he let him take it away. “If it is so terrible, why are you here? Why are you going to eat this awful fruit?”
“Only once, to make a point that all Mezotians are essentially the same,” Mira said. “Make no mistake, Mr. Romero. I am only here for the freedom of my people. I have no desire to live forever, to acquire wealth, to dominate like you capitalists. You want this corvalen because you must dominate over everything, even time.”
“So death is a communist?” He smiled, trying to lighten the mood.
“The greatest of equalizers,” she replied. “You must ask yourself: what is it you want to do in the universe? Simply make yourself rich? And what will happen when you start shipping the corvalen all over the universe, putting no qualification on immortality except the ability to pay for it? Isn’t such a gift worth more than that?”
“Look, I never hid my purpose,” Luis said. "We had a deal. You get help for your revolution. Once you attain power, I get the corvalen trade.”
Mira kept her green eyes steady on him. “I am not changing the terms,” she said. “I only want to make sure you understand. You can trade in corvalens, but you cannot have everything. I cannot possibly give it to you.”
Luis had a sinking feeling that he had misjudged the situation, badly. Mira's idealistic zeal would make her a dangerous partner, perhaps uncontrollable. Still there was always something everyone wanted. He just had to figure out what it was Mira Milanek really wanted.
As Luis hesitated, the waiter arrived and shoved an open dessert menu in front of him. This was the moment. He could not back out now, not after everything he risked, not while there was so much to gain.
“I will have a corvalen,” he said loudly. The waiter barely blinked at the fact that he just ordered a $2 million piece of fruit, but the word "corvalen" set off some excited murmuring among the other tables.
"Would you like that with the port wine sauce or the crème Anglaise?”
“Port wine.” The waiter turned to leave without even considering an order from Mira. Luis held up a finger. “And two forks.”
“Sir?” The waiter turned back toward him.
“Yes?”
The wasabi-colored waiter didn’t seem to know where to look. His pale-green eyes kept slipping from Luis to Mira to the people around the room. “Surely, you, ah, you don’t intend to share it with—”
“My date? Absolutely. Is there some sort of problem?”
“It is just—” The waiter looked ready to panic. His light green fingers gripped the menu so tightly his knuckles were almost white. “Corvalens have been known to kill ah—” He glanced nervously at Mira again, who gave him that insensibly bright smile. “People of her color.”
“Really?” Luis said. “Well, it surely is an extremely dangerous dessert. What do you say Mira? Willing to risk it?”
“Sure,” she said as if she was simply trying some new sweet.
The waiter flinched like she had slapped him. “Well, I certainly won’t—I mean Philots could not possibly serve something that would harm one of our patrons.”
“Listen here.” Luis dropped his joking tone. “I may be an alien trader, but I know your laws: there is no prohibition against any person, of any color, eating anything which they can afford to eat. And I assure you, I can afford to.” He slapped his company credit chip on the tabletop. “So go talk to whomever you need–your supervisor, the restaurant manager, go get Mr. Philot himself if you want. But we intend to have a corvalen tonight. Or shall I call my lawyers?”
The waiter looked like he was about to burst, but instead he turned on his heel and fled to the back room. Luis looked at Mira. Laughter twitched at her lips, but around them, the room had grown tense with silence. Luis saw his reporters scribbling nervously. One was already on his mobile.
“There is no need to worry,” the splotchy man at the next table said loudly in Mezotian to his wife. “Surely, the management at Philots will not allow itself to be bullied by a mirage-bandit.”
“Surely,” his wife agreed.
After a few minutes that dragged like hours, a nearly-white man carrying a clipboard came back to the table. “I am Charles Benot, Philots' restaurant manager," he said with a good English accent. “Your waiter informed me of your unusual request, and I am here to ask you to reconsider.”
“That won’t happen,” Luis said.
“I understand that you are very determined, Mr. Romero, but might I suggest that an experiment of this nature would be better for a laboratory, not a place of entertainment?”
“I respectfully disagree, Mr. Benot.”
"In that case, please sign here and here." Mr. Benot handed the clipboard to Luis who read over the liability form quickly and passed it back. The manager thanked him, tucked the clipboard firmly under his arm and snapped his fingers. The waiter appeared from the back room with a covered platter, trembling only slightly in his hands.
“This is outrageous!” said the man at the next table, throwing his napkin down. “Come on darling, we will not be subjected to this.” The couple got up and made for the door, forcing the beleaguered wasabi-colored waiter to sprint after them with their bill.
All over the restaurant the tables were in an uproar. A few other diners rushed out. People called to their waiters. Several grabbed their mobiles. The two reporters pulled cameras out from underneath their tables and started taking pictures, sending bright flashes of light everywhere.
But Luis barely registered all the drama because there before him on an oversized white plate, looking small and innocent, was a corvalen. It was red, a little bigger than a plum, and bore a disturbing resemblance to a tiny heart, drowning in a pool of dark red chocolate.
Luis took his knife and split
it down the middle. “Well?” He looked at Mira.
“Let's eat together,” she said. With a steady fork, she stabbed her half and brought the entire piece up to her mouth. She took a large bite and closed her eyes. Luis watched her chewing, noting that her chest still rose and fell with breath.
Luis cut a piece and raised it to his own lips. As he bit down, sweet juice filled his mouth followed by a sharp bitter taste. He swallowed closing his eyes. He felt no sudden change, at first. Then a laser line of heat cut through the center of his body as the fruit slowly slid down his throat trailing a fire that spread like a shot of hard liquor.
Luis trembled feeling a sudden power surge through his veins. Images from his dreams flashed through his mind. He saw rows upon rows of bottled corvalens ready for shipment. A space port filled with activity, a gleaming shuttle. And his villa sitting high on a barren hill.
Luis opened his eyes to return to reality. His looked down at his hands which were pale and trembling. Was he sick? He turned his hands over. His normal tan was completely gone, but it was more than that. Luis was proud of his Latin heritage. His family roots could be traced all the way back to Cortez, but even that golden hint of his ancestry was gone, leaving nothing, just ivory white, like a ghost or a vampire.
Shaken and feeling like he'd just lost something, he looked up, hoping for relief in the sight of the beautiful green Mira.
A white woman sat before him. Her eyes were closed and her hands gripped the table edge. Her hair was so bleached out it was almost the color of snow. It was Mira of course.
She opened her eyes, now a icy light blue. She smiled at him and licked the last trace of red juice from her lips. There was a new confidence in her look, a new power, but something else too, something Luis recognized: hunger. Ambition. She wanted more, needed more.
Luis knew he should relax. Mira would be much easier to deal with now. And even ghostly pale, she was still beautiful. But for Luis, she was utterly ruined.
####
Visit Sara Zaske at sara.zaske.wordpress.com or follow @sarazaske on Twitter.
Enjoy a free sample of The First: