by Neil Clarke
Sitta felt a strange, vague pity. Then fear. Shutting her eyes, she tried to purge her mind of everything fearful and tentative, making herself strong enough, trying to become as pure as the most perfect glass.
4
Sitta couldn’t recall when the prank had seemed fun or funny, though it must have been both at some moment. And she couldn’t remember whose idea it was. Perhaps Varner’s, except the criminality was more like the Twins or Pony. It was meant to be something new, a distraction that involved all of them, and it meant planning and practice and a measure of genuine courage. Sitta volunteered to tackle the largest target. Their goal was to quickly and irrevocably destroy an obscure species of beetle. How many people could boast that they’d pushed a species into oblivion? Rather few, they assumed. The crime would lend them a kind of notoriety, distinctive yet benign. Or so they told themselves, feeling clever and alive.
The ark system was built early in the war. It protected biostocks brought from the earth in finer days; some twenty million species were in cold storage and DNA libraries. A tiny portion of the stocks had been used as raw material for genetic weapons. Sitta’s parents built their lab beside the main ark, and she had visited both the lab and ark as a girl. Little had changed since, including the security systems. She entered without fuss, destroying tissue samples, every whole beetle, and even the partial sequencing maps. Her friends did the same work at the other facilities. It was a tiny black bug from the vanished Amazon, and except for ancient videos and a cursory description of its habits and canopy home, nothing remained of the organism, which was exactly as planned.
Sitta would have escaped undetected but for the miserable luck of a human guard who got lost, making a series of wrong turns. He came upon her moments after she had sent the beetle into nothingness. Caught sooner, her crime would have been simple burglary and vandalism. As it was, she was charged under an old law meant to protect wartime resources.
The mandatory penalty was death. Gray-haired prosecutors with calm gray voices told her, “Your generation needs to behave.” They said, “You’re going to serve as an example, Sitta.” Shaking ancient heads, they declared, “You’re a spoiled and wealthy infant, contemptible and vulgar, and we have no pity for you. We feel nothing but scorn.”
Sitta demanded to see her friends. She wanted them crammed into her hyperfiber cell, to have them see how she was living. Instead she got Icenice and Varner inside a spacious conference room, a phalanx of lawyers behind them. Her best friend wept. Her first lover said, “Listen. Just listen. Stop screaming now and hear us out.”
He told her that behind the scenes, behind the legal facades, semi-official negotiations were underway. Of course the Farside government knew she’d had accomplices, and a lot of officials were afraid that the scandal would spread. Friends with pull were being contacted. That’s what he assured her. Money was flowing from account to account. What Sitta needed to do was to plead guilty, to absorb all blame, because the judge was ready to find for clemency, using some semi-legal technicality. Of course there had to be a staggering penalty. “Which we will pay,” Varner promised, his voice earnest and strong. “We won’t let you spend a single digit of your own money.”
What were her choices? She had to nod, glaring at the lawyer while saying, “Agreed. Good-bye.”
“Poor Sitta,” Icenice had moaned, hugging her friend but weeping less, relieved that she wouldn’t be turned in to the authorities, that she was perfectly safe. Stepping back, the tall girl straightened her gown with a practiced flourish, adding, “And we’ll see you soon. Very soon, darling.”
But the judge wasn’t compliant. After accepting bribes and hearing a few inelegant threats, he slammed together the Hammers ofJustice and announced, “You’re guilty. But since the beetle is missing, and since the prosecution cannot prove its true worth, I cannot, in good conscience, find for the death penalty.”
Sitta stood alone with eyes shut. Then she had heard the word “clemency” and opened her eyes, except nobody but her had spoken.
The judge delivered a hard, withering stare. Sitta would hear that voice for years, syllable by syllable. “I sentence you to three years of involuntary servitude.” Again he struck the Hammers together. “Those three years will be served as a member of the Plowsharers. You’ll be stationed on the earth, young lady, at a post of my approval, and I just hope you learn something worthwhile from this experience.”
The Plowsharers? Those were the very stupid people who volunteered to work and die on the earth, and this had to be a mistake, and how could she have misunderstood so many words at one time . . . ?
Her friends looked as if they were in shock. All wept and bowed their heads, and she glared at them, waiting for even one of them to step forward and share the blame. But they didn’t. Would never. When they looked at Sitta, they saw someone who was about to die. The attrition rate among the Plowsharers was appalling. Had Varner and the others tricked her into confessing, knowing her fate all along? Probably not, no. They were genuinely surprised. She thought it then and thought nothing for the next eight years. But if they had come forward, en masse . . . if another eight families had embraced this ugly business . . . there might have been a reevaluation . . . an orphan’s crime would have been diluted, if only they’d acted with a dose of courage . . . the shits . . .
The earth was hell. A weak Farsider would die in an afternoon, slain by some nameless disease or embittered Terran. Yet not one good friend raised a hand, asking to be heard. Not even when Sitta screamed at them. Not even when she slipped away from her guard, springing over the railing and grabbing Varner, trying to shake him into honesty, cursing and kicking, fighting to shame the idiot into the only possible good deed.
More guards grabbed the criminal, doing their own cursing and kicking before finally binding her arms and legs.
The judge wore an ear-to-ear grin. “Wage good,” he called out, in the end. “Wage plenty of good, Sitta.”
It was a Plowsharers’ motto: Waging Good. And Sitta would remember that moment with a gallows’ clarity, her body being pulled away from Varner as Varner’s face grew cold and certain, one of his hands reaching, pressing at her chest as if helping the guards restrain her, and his tired thick voice said, “You’ll be back.” There wasn’t a shred of confidence in those words. Then, “You’ll do fine.” And finally with a whisper, in despair, “This is for the best, darling. For the best.”
5
The mountains were high and sharp, every young peak named for some little hero of the war. Titanic blasts had built them, then waves of plasma broke against them, fed by the earth’s weapons and meant to pour through any gaps, flooding Farside with the superheated materials. But the waves had cooled and dissipated too quickly. The mountains were left brittle, and in the decades since, at irregular intervals, different slopes would collapse, aprons of debris fanning across the plain. The old railbug skirted one apron, crossed another, then rose into a valley created by an avalanche, a blur of rocks on both sides and Varner’s calm voice explaining how the Martians—who else?—had buried hyperfiber threads, buttressing the mountains, making them safer than mounds of cold butter.
Then they left the valley, passing into the open again, an abandoned fort showing as a series of rectangular depressions. Its barrier generators and potent lasers had been pulled and sold as scrap. There was no more earthshine and no sun yet, but Sitta could make out the sloping wall of an ancient crater and a wide boulder-strewn floor. The border post was in the hard black shadows; the railbug was shunted to a secondary line. Little gold domes passed on their right. They slowed down and then stopped beside a large green dome, fingers of light stabbing at them.
“Why do we have to stop?” asked one of the strangers.
And Pony said, “Because,” while gracelessly pointed toward Sitta.
“It should only take a minute or two,” Varner said, winking at her, maintained that picture of calm ignorance.
A walktube was spliced into the bug�
�s hatch, and with a rush of humid air, guards entered. Human, not robotic. And armed, too. But what made it most remarkable were the three gigantic hounds. Sitta recognizing the breed in the same instant she realized this was no ordinary inspection. Her composure wobbled but held strong. It was Varner who jumped to his feet, muttering, “By what right—?”
“Hello,” shouted the hounds. “Be still. We bite!” They were broad and hairless, pink as tongues and free of all scent. Their minds and throats had been surgically augmented, and their nostrils were the best in the solar system. The earth’s provisional government used these animals, and if smugglers were found with weapons or contraband, they were instantly executed, that work given to the hounds as a reward.
“We bite,” the hounds repeated. “Out of our way!”
A Belter walked into the railbug, long limbs wearing grav-assist braces. Her bearing and the indigo uniform implied a great rank. Next to her, the hounds appeared docile. She glowered, glared. Facing her, Varner lost all of his nerve, slumping at the shoulders, whimpering, “How can we help?”
“You can’t help,” she stated. Then, speaking to the guards and hounds, she said, “Hunt!”
Sensors and noses were put to work, scouring the floor and corners and the old fixtures, then the passengers and their belongings. One hound descended on Sitta’s bag, letting out a piercing wail.
“Whose is this?” asked the Belter.
Sitta kept control her face, her voice. If this woman knew her plan, then they wouldn’t bother with this little drama. She’d already be placed under arrest. Everyone she knew or had been near would be isolated, then interrogated . . . if they even suspected . . .
“It’s my bag,” Sitta allowed.
“Open it for me. Now.”
Unfastening the simple latches, she worked with cool deliberation. The bag sprang open, and she retreated, watching the heavy pink snouts descend, probing and snorting, wet mouths pulling at her neatly folded clothes. Like the bulky trousers and shirt Sitta wore, these were simple items made with rough, undyed, and inorganic fabrics. The hounds could be hunting for persistent viruses and boobytrapped motes of dust. Except a dozen mechanical searches had found her clean. Had someone recently tried to smuggle something dangerous into Farside? But why send a Belter? Nothing made sense. Sitta felt empty and unready. Then at last, with loud, disappointed voices, the hounds said, “Clean, clean, clean.”
The official offered a grim nod.
Again Varner straightened, skin damp, glistening. “I have never, ever seen such a . . . such a . . . what do you want . . . ?”
No answer was offered. The Belter approached Sitta, her braces humming, lending an unexpected vigor. With the mildest voice, she asked, “How are the Plowsharers doing, miss? Are you waging all the good you can?”
“Always,” Sitta replied.
“Well, good for you.” The official waved a long arm. Two guards grabbed Sitta and carried her to the back of the bug, into the cramped toilet, then stood beside the doorway as the official looked over their shoulders, telling their captive, “Piss into the bowl, miss. And don’t flush.”
Old, weakened glass. That’s what Sitta was. A thousand fractures met and she nearly collapsed, catching herself on the tiny sink and then, using her free hand, unfastening her trousers. Her expansive brown belly seemed to glow. She sat with all the dignity she could muster. Pissing took concentration, courage. Then she rose again, barely able to pull up her trousers when the Belter shouted, “Hunt,” and the hounds pushed past her, heads filling the elegant wooden bowl.
If so much as a single molecule was out of place, they would find it. Ifjust one cell had thrown off its camouflage—
—drained of thought, Sitta retreated into a trance that she had mastered on the earth. On their own, her hands finished securing her trousers. A big wagging tail bruised her leg. Then came three voices, in a chorus, saying, “Yes, yes, yes.”
Yes? What did yes mean?
The official smiled, giving Sitta an odd sideways glance. Then there wasn’t any smile, a stern unapologetic voice saying, “I am sorry for the delay, miss.”
What had the hounds smelled?
“Welcome home, Miss Sitta.”
The intruders retreated, vanished. The walktube was detached, and the railbug accelerated, Sitta walking against the strong tug. Varner and the others watched her in silent astonishment, nothing in their experience to match this assault. She almost screamed, “This happens on the earth, every day!” But she didn’t speak, taking an enormous breath, then kneeling, wiping her hands against her shirt, then calmly beginning to refold and repack her belongings.
The others were embarrassed. Dumbfounded. Intrigued.
It was Pony who noticed the sock under the seat, bringing it to her and touching the bag for a moment, commenting, “It’s beautiful leather.” She wanted to sound at ease and trivial, adding, “What kind of leather is it?”
Sitta was thinking: What if someone knows?
Months ago, when this plan presented itself, she assumed that one of the security apparatuses would discover her, then execute her, She allowed herself a ten percent chance of surviving to this point, which seemed wildly optimistic. But what if there were people—powerful, like-minded people—who believed that she was right? No government could sanction what Sitta was attempting, much less make it happen. But they might allow the means to slip past them.
That woman smiled at me!
“Are they culturing leather on the earth?” asked Pony, unhappy to be ignored. Stroking the simple bag with both hands, she commented, “It has a nice texture. Very smooth.”
“It’s not cultured,” Sitta responded. “Terrans can’t own biosynthetic equipment.”
“It’s from an animal then.” The girl’s hand lifted, a vague disgust showing on her face. “Is it?”
“Yes,” said the retired Plowsharer.
“What kind of animal?”
“The human kind.”
Every eye was fixed on her.
“The other species are scarce,” Sitta explained. “And precious. Even rat skins go into the pot.”
No one breathed; no one dared move.
“This bag is laminated human flesh,” she told them, fastening the latches. Click, click. “You have to understand. On the earth, it’s an honor to be used after death. You want to stay behind and help your family.”
A low moan fled Icenice.
And Sitta set the bag aside, watching the staring faces as she added, “I knew some of these people. I did.”
6
The Plowsharers were founded and fueled by idealists who never actually worked on the earth. A wealthy Farsider donated her estate as an administrative headquarters. Plowsharers were to be volunteers with purposeful skills that would help the earth and its suffering people. That was the intent, at least. Finding volunteers worth accepting was the trouble. A hundred thousand vigorous young teachers and doctors and ecological technicians could have done miracles. But the norm was to creak along with ten or fifteen thousand ill-trained, emotionally questionable semi-volunteers. Who in her right mind joined a service with fifty percent mortality? Along the bell-shaped curve, Sitta was one of the blue-chip recruits. She had youth and a quality education. Yes, she was spoiled. Yes, she was naive. But she was in perfect health and could be made even healthier. “We’re always improving our techniques,” the doctors explained, standing before her in the orbital station. “What we’ll do is teach your flesh how to resist its biological enemies, because they’re the worst hazards. Diseases and toxins kill more Plowsharers than do bombs, old or new.”
A body that had never left the soft climate of Farside was transformed. Her immune system was bolstered, then a second, superior system was built on top of it. She was fed tailored bacteria that proceeded to attack her native flora, destroying them and bringing their withering firepower to her defense. As an experiment, Sitta was fed cyanides and dioxins, cholera and rabies. Headaches were her worst reaction. Then fulle
renes stuffed full of procrustean bugs were injected straight into her heart. What should have killed her in minutes made her nauseous, nothing more. The invaders were obliterated, their toxic parts encased in plastic granules, then jettisoned in the morning’s bowel movement.
Meanwhile, bones and muscles had to be strengthened. Calcium slurries were ingested, herculian steroids were administered along with hard exercise, and her liver succumbed as a consequence, her posting delayed. Her threeyear sentence didn’t begin until she set foot on the planet, yet Sitta was happy for the free time. It gave her a chance to compose long, elaborate letters to her old friends, telling them in clear terms to fuck themselves and each other and fuck Farside and would they please die soon and horribly, please?
A fresh liver was grown and implanted. At last, Sitta was posted. With an education rich in biology—a legacy of her parents—she was awarded a physician’s field diploma, then given to a remote city on the cratered rock of northern America. Her hyperfiber chests were stolen in Athens. With nothing but the clothes she had worn for three days, she boarded the winged shuttle that would take her across the poisoned Atlantic. Her mood couldn’t have been lower. That’s what she believed, and then, gazing out a tiny porthole, she discovered a new depth of spirit. Gray ocean was giving way to a blasted lunar surface. It was like the moon of old, save for the thick acidic haze and the occasional dab of green, both serving to heighten the bleakness, the lack of all hope.
She decided to throw herself from the shuttle. Placing a hand on the emergency latch, she waited for the courage; but then one of the crew saw her and came over to her, kneeling to say, “Don’t.” His smile was charming, his eyes angry. “If you need to jump,” he said, “use the rear hatch. And seal the inner door behind you, will you?”