Heart of Gold

by Sharon Shinn

  “And aren’t you living it?”

  He glanced behind him at the carful of quiet guldmen. “I was,” he said. “Until today.”

  He said nothing more so she prompted him again. “And you work where? Somewhere in the city.”

  He nodded. “Biolab. In the Complex.”

  That arched her brows. For all his talk of techno-ignorance, he was a scientist at heart. “That’s where they make the new drugs, isn’t it? I read an article about the Biolab just the other day, and it sounded pretty impressive.”

  “Yes, we produce the experimental medications. Some work a little better than others, but we’ve had some rousing successes.”

  She inspected him with a new eye, this man who had, almost with his opening sentence, offered death to the man she loved. “So, Nolan Adelpho,” she said. “In fact, what you are is a saver of lives.”

  But something in that sentence made him turn his face away. He stared stonily out the window. “I used to be,” he said, and had nothing more to add.

  * * *

  * * *

  They rode for the next hour in silence. The blueskin man continued staring out the window at what had become the deep blackness of true night. Kit, who had not had time to pick up any diversions while they were shopping for clothes, had nothing to occupy her but her thoughts. Was it possible that, a few short hours ago, she had been lying in Jex’s arms, content and at peace? How had she been wrenched from that idyll to this nightmare? What had possessed her to listen to this man? Why hadn’t she called out for the nearest guard (the Complex was alive with security) and had this Nolan creature hauled away?

  But he had threatened Jex. She had believed him. Oddly gentle though he seemed now, she still sensed truth and purpose behind his words. And how could she let anyone destroy Jex? Now that she knew he loved her again?

  She resettled herself more comfortably in her seat and let herself relive that sweet hour in her lover’s arms. He had been so worried, so affectionate, so solicitous. Of course, it was strange that he had, before she even accused him, denied any complicity in the Centrifuge bombing. But then, their last few conversations had been arguments about his violent activities, particularly the explosions at the Carbonnier Extension.

  It was hard to believe there were two terrorist groups operating in the city, when until Jex’s arrival there had been none.

  However, Kit had not yet heard anyone say definitively that the explosions in the Centrifuge had been bombs—had been in any way deliberate. Perhaps they had been merely structural deficiencies, triggered by some combination of temperature, land shift, and electronic decay. Like Nolan, she had no understanding of the principles behind the Centrifuge; she had no idea what factors might contribute to a sudden combustion.

  Though if the explosions had been due to natural disaster or human negligence, why had Jex been so eager to disclaim any involvement? If they had not been caused by bombs at all?

  Her memory played back his words from this afternoon. “I did not plan the explosions in the Centrifuge six days ago … And had I known such a thing had been planned for that day I would have found some way to ensure your safety. The second I heard the blasts—when I realized where you must be—I cannot tell you the agony I endured …”

  But if he had not had knowledge that a bombing had been planned for the Centrifuge, why had he even bothered to worry about her? He knew that’s where she was likely to be, yes, but how had he guessed where the explosives had been planted? Sound was an unreliable visitor—it wandered in from all directions. How had he sat in his cell in the Complex, heard the fearsome detonation, and instantly known the site of the devastation?

  He had not known the explosions were planned for that day. He had known that his allies and fellow revolutionaries were laying the wire and setting up the blasting powder for some future strike against the city. And if he had known about it, he had no doubt been involved in the planning, because Jex was not the man to sit by and let his disciples decide a course of action without his input.

  The timing had been wrong, somehow. But the action had been Jex’s. So not only had he been responsible for the deaths of nearly three hundred people, he had lied to her; and he had lied so well that he had convinced her.

  She should have let this Nolan Adelpho do his worst, then. She should have let him kill Jex Zanlan.

  But maybe she was wrong. Maybe her reasoning was faulty. This was the man she loved beyond all sense of decorum or reason. How could she so easily condemn him, how could she so quickly believe such heinous things about him? She must return to the city, she must go back to Jex, ask him to his face very clearly what he knew about the bombing, how innocent he truly was. He would tell her. He might misstate the truth, he might speak in those indirections for which the gulden were famous, but at heart, Jex was not a liar. He scorned the need for subterfuge; he had never been afraid to take full blame for any of his words or actions. He would tell her, and then she could breathe again. As for now, her very ribs hurt with the soreness of her heart.

  So bitter were her thoughts, and so completely lost in them was she, that she was sharply startled when Nolan spoke to her again. She jerked around to face him; she knew she must have appeared to jump in terror. “What? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch what you said,” she stammered.

  “I said, do you want another pain pill? You look a little haggard. Is your foot bothering you again?”

  It was, but she had not noticed that dull ache amid all her other, more fatal wounds. “A little. I don’t think I want another pill now. Maybe before I try to fall asleep.”

  He nodded. “Are you hungry? I am.”

  Earlier, there had been a steady of stream of passengers past them on their way to the food stalls, but now the activity had slowed. Which meant the food car would not be too crowded. “Not very,” she said, “but I’ll go with you and show you how everything’s set up. And maybe you could buy me a piece of fruit or something light.”

  He gave her a somber smile. “You’re that broke?” he asked.

  “No, it’s just that a woman can’t make a monetary transaction in Geldricht.”

  He stared. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Quite serious. Unless she has a kurkalo, which I don’t.”

  “A kurk—a what?”

  “Kurkalo. It’s a—well, basically an article of permission from her husband or brother or clan chief. It looks like a wooden stick attached to a bracelet. She just shows it to the vendors, and then they treat her as if she is an emissary for her clan chief. Which, basically, she is.”

  “I never heard of anything so ridiculous.”

  Her quick anger sparked again. “Oh? And what do you know about the structure of wealth and family in Geldricht? How do you think money should be apportioned? A man is responsible for the financial well-being of his household, which includes feeding and clothing his wife, his children, any brothers or nephews who are dependent on him, his servants if he has any, the unmarried daughters of the relatives who do not have connections of their own—everyone. Sometimes as many as a hundred people. If that money is spent frivolously by his wife or his daughter—or anyone else in the family—how will he have enough to buy all the necessary items to keep the household running? Someone must watch over the money. His wife and his daughters respect this. They only ask for a kurkalo when they have a need for something, or when they will be traveling somewhere without his protection. And then he is only too happy to provide for them. A man who does not provide for his women is a worthless creature, someone due no honor. Any woman engaged on legitimate business will have a kurkalo. The system works very well.”

  He leaned forward, a little riled up himself. “If it works so well, then why do we have an entire small town of gulden women who have run away from their fathers and their husbands, living in poverty on the fringes of the city? I must assume no one gave them any kurkalo to ma
ke that journey, wouldn’t you agree? Or do you think they should have stayed in Geldricht, living in whatever conditions were so intolerable they forced the poor women to run in the first place? I don’t claim to know much about the gulden lifestyle, or gulden men, but I know a fair amount about indigo men and women, and let me tell you, there are a few of them that I wouldn’t want to be tied to for life with no recourse and no hope of escape. I would have to imagine there are plenty of gulden who make lousy husbands and fathers, and that there are plenty of gulden women who would rather die than spend another day in their company. And you’re telling me that that’s a system that works well?”

  He had hit on it exactly; he had put into words much of what she hated about the feudal, patriarchal gulden society. He could not know how she spent her days, trying to empower those escaped gulden women. He could not know how slowly and carefully she had worked, when she last lived on Gold Mountain, to institute change and press for laws that would give gulden women some legal rights.

  “You’re right. The system is not perfect,” she said stiffly. “And for just the reasons you state. But you should not so smugly discredit it when you do not know why it was set up in the first place and how well it works much of the time.”

  “I’m just amazed,” he said, “that any woman would agree to such a situation. The women I know would poison a man in his sleep before they would agree to be chattels. Or—no—nothing so passive. They would demolish him in some much more public way. But they would not become dependents.”

  “The women you know grew up in a much different environment,” Kit said quietly.

  “There are some truths that seem so intrinsic—so instinctual, even—that I cannot believe they can be overcome by environment,” Nolan said.

  “Then you have a lot to learn,” she said. “What you teach a man in the cradle he will carry with him to the grave. He may fight it—he may learn new truths that contradict and supersede the old ones—but he will not ever be able to entirely convince himself that what he learned first is wrong.”

  “That’s terrible,” he said, “if true.”

  She gave a mirthless laugh. “I’m sure it is true even in your own case! You appear to be a somewhat sophisticated man. You’ve lived in the city for five years—you’ve mentioned knowing at least one gulden man, and you talked of him as if he was a friend. But if you were brought up in-country on a Higher Hundred estate, I’ll wager you were taught that guldmen were completely inferior, and even now you can’t quite bring yourself to believe they’re your equals.”

  He was silent for so long that she thought he might not answer. His face looked troubled, and he folded his hands tightly together before him.

  “To a large extent,” he finally said, in a slow, considering voice, “you’re right. I was—my mother considered herself a liberal woman, and always taught us that we should treat people who were not of our own social level with—with dignity and respect. But firmness. We should not let them encroach. We should not let them get too familiar. This applied mostly to the mid-caste and low-caste servants who worked in the house. We were always taught that the world runs best when everyone knows his place—and stays in it.

  “But that rule applied even more to the gulden. We didn’t see many, of course—a few, probably brought into the towns specifically to do some of that electronic work you talked about. My mother was very clear on our behavior to them. Treat them with great gentleness but reserve, as you would treat some kind of afflicted child. The worst sin in her eyes was to be rude, but stepping out of your place in the social order was a pretty close second.

  “Actually, my mother believed that gulden were about on a par with animals—fairly intelligent and occasionally useful animals, but no higher. I don’t know that she ever used the word. I do know that that is how I viewed them myself. As primitive creatures. Without thought processes. Without refined emotions. Without—without any of the characteristics that distinguish men from beasts.”

  He paused a moment, squeezing his hands together even more painfully. “When I came to the city,” he said, “I was—it’s impossible to convey how profoundly I was shocked. Not only because there were so many guldmen, but because they walked around on the streets of their own free will, choosing which doors to open and which trolleys to catch. You understand, I had never seen a guldman—never seen a guldman—unattended before. The few I saw in-country were always being directed by some blueskin in some task. It didn’t occur to me they could have independent motives and schemes. It hadn’t crossed my mind.

  “And then. The Biolab. I walked in that first day and discovered that half of my coworkers were guldmen, and my immediate supervisor was a gulden man. I couldn’t credit it. That a guldman could be capable of the fine deductive reasoning and scientific research that had taken me so much study to achieve—well, it would be as if you told me a fruit tree could compute higher mathematics. I would not believe you. Not until I saw it work its own multiplication tables, writing in the dirt with its lower branches.

  “Well. It took me the better part of a year to overcome my amazement. Pakt—he’s my supervisor—he was very good with me. I think he must have known how I was feeling, and he allowed me to learn on my own how skilled and efficient a guldman could be. And I admire Pakt more than any man I’ve ever met—gold or blue. I truly do. But I have to admit—”

  He paused again and looked down at his hands as if unsure of where they came from or to whom they belonged. The train clattered across an uneven section of track, making both of them sway in their chairs, but still he did not look up from his folded hands.

  “You have to admit what?” Kit demanded, when it seemed he might not complete his sentence.

  “That every once in a while, I slip. I see a guldman on the street, doing something, and I think, ‘How can he manage that?’ A guldman brushes up against me accidentally, and I recoil. The ones I know—Pakt and Colt and Dade—the ones I work with every day, seem intelligent and individual to me. The ones I don’t know … I cannot entirely accept. It’s not just that I don’t consider them my equals. It’s that, for a minute, I forget they’re even human.”

  Kit smiled, though she felt completely humorless. “See, then? You have proved my point.”

  But Nolan hitched himself forward in his chair, leaning toward her with a frowning intensity. “But I think the fault is in me, don’t you see? I don’t blame my mother—her mother—all the blueskin women who over the centuries taught us that they had bred some master indigo race. I have a brain and a will. I should be able to overcome that training.”

  She was unexpectedly moved. “Well, give yourself time. Perhaps someday you will achieve unthinking parity.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Parity would be not noticing—the very first thing I notice about a man!—if he is indigo or gold. It would be looking at a woman and thinking ‘Isn’t she attractive?’ even if she was gulden. Some indigo men are able to do it. You see them, now and then, with the gilt girls on the city streets. I can imagine no situation in which I would allow myself to become involved with a gulden girl. But if I were able to achieve parity in my heart, would that be so unthinkable? I cannot help myself—I consider the mere thought a degradation. I don’t believe I will ever overcome that bone-deep distaste. And I am lax by indigo standards. I see no hope for the races to ever come together in harmony.”

  This time, his words left her colder and colder. Kit had actually wrapped her arms around herself to ward off the chill of his confession. It shouldn’t matter what he said. He was a lunatic, and he had practically abducted her; she should be glad to think they could not share an emotion in common. But she hugged herself tighter and thought, blindly, What a terrible day.

  Suddenly, his voice changed, became less intense and more concerned. “Look, you’re shivering. I have a sweater in my bag here, would you like it?”

  “No—no, I’m fine,” she
said.

  “Maybe you’ll feel better if you get something to eat,” he said. “Do they serve hot drinks? Something to warm you up.”

  Of course; moments ago they had been planning to fetch food. Kit rose shakily to her feed. “Good idea. Let’s eat.”

  The food car, adjacent to theirs, was practically empty. There were four stands set up along one wall, each staffed by two or three family members, mostly men. One vendor sold meat, one sold fruit, one sold cheese and eggs, one sold beverages. The contracts for these stands were lucrative and jealously guarded; some gulden families had owned franchises for years.

  “What do you recommend?” Nolan asked.

  “Are you familiar with gulden food?”

  “A little. I’ve eaten at some of the fashionable restaurants. And I’ve been to Pakt’s house, though he was careful what he served.”

  “Then I’d stick with the things you know. Now is not the time to get sick experimenting with native cuisine.”

  “All right, then. I’ll get a meat pie and some fruit. What do you want? Do I have to order for you, too, or just pay?”

  “Order, too, though I suppose I’ll have to translate.”

  “Will that be acceptable?”

  “Oh, yes, as long as you appear to be making the decisions.”

  Ultimately, they chose an assortment from each of the stalls and carried their purchases to one of the round tables lining the other wall of the car. The train rocked steadily back and forth, a hypnotic, soothing rhythm that lulled all the senses into a state of serenity. Or maybe she was just tired, Kit thought. She had been through such a broad spectrum of emotions this day that it was no wonder she felt blank, purposeless, passive. She slid into a chair and set down the food, cradling the more slippery items to keep them from sliding off the table with the motion of the train.