Clade (16 page)

Does Whipplebaum know about Ibrahim and BEAN . . . what’s going on? He must.

On the SSTO, Rigo flops into a gelbag that molds to his body and attracts his biosuit like a bad case of static cling. He can move, get up if he has to, but it’s easier to stay put. Especially three minutes after take-off, when the SSTO climbs to vertical, the wings fold back, and g-force stretches his lips all the way to his ears.

Then they’re outside the gravity well and Rigo feels strangely unmoored. It’s not just his body that’s weightless but his thoughts. He’s floating, cut loose from everything. There’s nothing dragging him down, holding him back. For the first time in his life, he’s totally free.

It’s an illusion, of course. Given enough time, he’ll come crashing back down to earth. A major downer.

“You want to swim with the navigation stream?” Varda asks.

“Sure,” Rigo says. He leans his head back. A speck of light appears on the small screens of his wraparounds. A short, vaporous tail trails behind it.

“Tiresias,” Varda says.

After half an hour, Rigo dozes off. When he wakes, four hours later, the speck is a moon-size orb, moving relatively fast against the fixed background of stars. He can make out a sharp terminus line creeping across the surface of the dirty snowball—black ice boiling under the leading edge.

During the trip, Varda has been strangely quiet. Usually the IA is a nonstop
boca
, a chatterbox. Can’t stop streaming him information or asking questions. It gets on his nerves, big-time. But this is worse. He hasn’t had to offline the IA once in over five hours. A record.

“Everything okay?” he asks, worried.

“Yes. Why?”

“I don’t know. You’re so . . . quiet.”

“There’s a lot to process.”

“Like what?”

“You wouldn’t be interested.”

“How do you know?”

“You just wouldn’t.”

This isn’t the Varda he’s used to dealing with. The Varda he knows can’t tell the difference between holy cow and sacred cow. Confuses rain with reign, sore with soar, and profit with prophet. Is never intentionally evasive or off-putting. Always tells him more than he wants to know about everything.

“How’s Ibrahim?” he asks.

“Fine.”

“What
aren’t
you telling me?” he says.

“Nothing.”

“No shit.”

“I just want to be left alone for a while. That’s all.”

Something is definitely wrong. Great, an IA that refuses to talk to him. “This is not the time to become a hermit,” he says.

“You’re such a crab,” Varda tells him.

That’s more like it . . . back to normal. And not a moment too soon. His perspective of Tiresias has flip-flopped. Instead of looking up at the comet, he’s looking down on it. He can make out surface details. Ridges. Pockmarks. A deep crevice that gapes like an open wound. The shadows are stark and sharp edged, as if they’ve been cut out of the sunlight with a razor.

As the surface draws nearer, he has the distinct sensation of falling. Lights blink in the darkness below them, beckoning. Dish-shaped solar panels wink, coquettish as flowers on stem-thin struts.

“The main research station,” Varda says.

A few minutes later, buildings appear. Modular foam inflatables, for the most part, though there are a few rigid structures as well. Carbyne-frame geodesics that flash like faceted gemstones. Rigo can’t see the plants—they’re on the other side of the comet—but he can taste the sugary sprinkle of photons they’re converting into thermal and electric energy, hear the fetal throbbing of warmth.

“Welcome to paradise,” Claribel says.

Soon they’re on the surface. Vapor billows up around them, and just as quickly turns to crystal rain that falls in slow motion, settling like mica in a snow globe. He detaches from the gelbag, floats free, and pulls himself along after the rest of his team, hoping to catch up with Dorit. Out of the SSTO, through an insulated access tube, and into one of the inflatable buildings. Whipplebaum is at his side, hair in a foggy low-g boil, as if his head is smoking. They float along a corridor walled with micropore foam and illuminated by soft biolum panels. Embedded magnets keep them from banging into the walls, push them along at a gentle tenth of a meter per second.

“When do we start work on the plants?” Rigo asks. He watches Rana, Antoine, Luis, and the others bang into each other ahead of him, coordinated as balls in a spinning bingo wheel.

“Patience, my boy,” Whipplebaum says, smoothing a tuft of hair into place. “First, the colonists need to get settled in. Become fully integrated with the warm-blooded environment before we begin testing and analysis. Their acclimatization is being implemented by a different part of the team. That will take several hours. Then it’s your turn at bat. Monitoring the plants and checking their response to the colonists. If they’re stable or unstable, and what tweaks, if any, can be made to optimize assimilation. The ecotectural and biomed info will be downloaded and channeled through your IA as it comes online. You’ll have a chance to get up to speed in stages. Ramp up, as it were, to the climactic moment.”

Dorit has disappeared around a corner ahead of them. At the same junction, the magnetic current takes him in another direction, whisks him into an enlarged section of the tunnel that resembles a mausoleum. Two rows of coffin-size rooms with sleep nets, amniotic lighting, and windowless privacy doors. Cozy.

“In the meantime”—Whipplebaum gestures to one of the stacked cylinders—“I suggest you make yourself at home.”

SIXTEEN

Confined to the ap, Anthea feels like she’s been condemned to purgatory. She can’t get close to Ibrahim, can’t even be in the same room with him. Which is good and bad. On the plus side, it means he’s out of immediate danger. He’s got enough of whatever pherion Rigo gave him during the night to keep him healthy. On the minus side, he’s as much a prisoner as she is. The hard part is that she can’t give him any physical comfort to ease the isolation. All she has to offer is emotional support, a smile, meager words of encouragement.

“How do you feel?”

“All right.” His gaze wanders around the room with the erratic focus of a moth. “Where am I?”

“An ap in San Jose.”

He glances at the nanimatronic rat asleep on his pillow. “How long have I been here?”

“A day.”

He looks up from the toy to Anthea. “It seems like forever.”

And no time at all, she thinks. Eternity in a heartbeat. “Are you hungry? Can I get you something?”

He shakes his head. “How come you brought me here?”

Don’t get all emotional, she reminds herself. Maintain clinical distance. Stick to the facts. “BEAN is looking for you. They contacted me at the clinic yesterday, while you were asleep.”

“I don’t want to be deported. I don’t want to go back.” He stares past her, as if haunted by a specter.

The nape of Anthea’s neck prickles. “Where would you like to go?”

“Rio. They’ve got live music there. Musicians in bands playing real instruments at clubs.”

“Is that where you’re from?”

“No, that’s just what I’ve heard. I don’t know for a fact. But I’d like to go down there. Check it out.”

“Where else would you like to go?”

“Tokyo. The part that’s built on the ocean.”

“What’s the most interesting place you’ve been?”

He shrugs, closes down. “I’m not sure.”

Not much of an answer. As usual, he’s managed to deflect conversation when it comes to his past. She’s not making much progress on the home front. Still has no clue where’s he’s originally from. She could really use somebody to talk to. Rigo’s mom is super nice and all. But it’s not as if they can discuss psychology. She doesn’t feel like she’s doing enough, wonders if there’s anything she can do. There must be
some
thing. She wishes she could draw him out more. But there’s really nothing she can do, except wait until he’s ready. Hope that he hangs on. Pray that BEAN doesn’t find them. A lot of what’s going to happen depends on Beto. How long it takes him to get back to her and how much he can or can’t do for them. Once she finds out whether or not Beto can cook up an antipher, she’ll have a better idea of her next move.

“You want some breakfast?” the old woman asks when Anthea rejoins her in the kitchen. “I’ve got juice. Instant cereal. A little bread. Some seaweed jelly.”

“I’m fine,” Anthea says. “Thanks.”

“You don’t look fine. You should eat. You’re too skinny. No wonder you can’t have children.”

Anthea blinks, takes a moment to recover her wits. “That’s not it,” she says.

The old woman gives her a curious look. “Tell me what the trouble is then,
mija
.”

Anthea shifts on the sofa. It’s the first time Rigo’s mom has been this close with her, treated her like family. “What makes you think I want kids, Mama?”

Mother. The word feels strange in her mouth. Foreign. Lost during the years of self-imposed motherlessness after she ran away from home.

The old woman nods at the wallscreen, where Ibrahim is crashed out on the bed. “You wouldn’t help him if you didn’t.”

“This is different. He’s in trouble, needs help.”

“Not so different.” The woman moves to join her. Totters stiff-legged over to one end of the sofa, plants a hand on the armrest, and edges around the corner. Anthea hops up to help, gets waved off. “I can manage.” One knee creaks, slowly bends, while the other leg refuses to cooperate. It remains locked in place, rigid as a board as she lowers herself. Halfway down she reaches the point of no return, and gravity sucks her into the cushion. The landing is soft, accompanied by a grunt.

The added weight on the sofa collapses the cushions in the center. Anthea finds herself canting sideways into dry, crusty skin, and pepper-tree deodorant.

“I’m not the only one with maladies.” The old woman sighs. “We’re all victims.” She adjusts her dress on her thighs, turns her attention to the wallscreen. “He reminds me of Rigo. The first time I saw him. My heart went out.”

She says this casually, as if setting down a bag of groceries she’s hauled around for years and suddenly grown weary of carrying.

“What do you mean the first time, Mama?”

“It was at a displaced persons camp outside of Denver.” Rigo’s mom pauses to sort through attic memorabilia she hasn’t examined in years. “That was what they called refugees back then, displaced persons. My mother and I lived in an offshore flotilla camp for two years after the first mass extinction, before we were finally admitted to the United States and claded for St. Louis.”

“You grew up in SL?”

“It wasn’t that bad. Prostitutes and petty criminals, mostly. No mafia, tongs, or cartels. Of course, I immigrated there when I was five. I remembered a little about the Dominican Republic, but not enough to have trouble assimilating. Kids always have it easier. They adapt, accept the world as it is. For them, the past is so much smaller than the present. There’s not as much to hold on to, so it’s easy to let go.”

“How old were you when the plague hit?”

“Twenty-two. Beto was three. I decided to get him out fast when his father got sick one day and never came home. He went straight from work to the hospital—where he died a day later.”

The virus had sprung out of the ecotecture. A mutated pherion that instantiated in the population in a matter of days. Transmission was not only person to person, but environment to person. Ninety percent fatal.

“That’s how we ended up in Denver. Front Range City, actually. I found Rigo in the maglev station. Sitting totally alone, waiting. I took him under my wing, tried to find his relatives. But after two days, I gave up. Knew he’d been abandoned.”

“So you adopted him.”

“Not officially. Just pretended he was mine. BEAN took my word on it. Never checked, even though it was pretty obvious at the time he wasn’t Dominican. They just wanted to get a handle on the situation. San Jose was just opening up. So they sent us here. No questions asked.”

“Does he remember what happened?”

“I don’t think so. He was too young. If he does, he hasn’t said anything to me. I haven’t told him or Beto.”

“Are you going to?”

“No. It’s too late now. At the time, I didn’t want to make Rigo feel like less of a son, give Beto something to lord over him. You know how vicious boys can be. Better they hate each other as brothers.”

“How come you’re telling me, Mama?”

“Because I think we should talk honestly. Just the two of us, woman to woman.”

She states this matter-of-factly. No conspiratorial wink, or knowing nudge to the ribs. In other words, Anthea thinks, she wants them to be kind of like sisters—or best friends—rather than mother and daughter. Zero secrets between them.

Anthea folds her hands in her lap. Rubs one thumb. Listens to the old woman’s slow, unhurried breaths.

“I left home when I was twelve,” Anthea begins. “Lived on the streets until I was sixteen, working as a
puta
. I’ve never tried to hide that about myself. Not from Rigo or anyone else. I wouldn’t be surprised if he already told you. I haven’t asked him not to, if you want to know.”

“Lots of kids run away from home, for lots of reasons. Some good. Some not so good.”

“I’m not ashamed of what I did,” Anthea says. She refuses to apologize. “What I did hide, what I’ve never told anybody, is why I left. Who and what I ran away from.”

Most people assume it was a shitty home life— abuse, neglect—or youthful rebellion. Whenever anybody asks, she lets them draw their own conclusion by saying, “The usual,” or a rhetorical, “What do you think?”

Rigo’s mom waits. No pressure. Anthea can say as much or as little as she wants. It’s up to her. She feels like one of the street kids she counsels who’s having a hard time opening up, learning to trust. It isn’t easy finding herself on the flip side of the coin. It’s been years since she’s been in this position. Too bad she doesn’t have a sketchpad or a doll she can use as a stand-in to act things out for her.

“I don’t have a sister or a nephew,” she confesses. “I met Malina before I started working for Global Upreach. We’re close friends, not relatives. I lied, told Rigo she was my sister because—”

She falters. Why? Because she wanted a sister, and Malina was as close as she would ever come?

“Because I wanted Rigo to think I was like him,” Anthea says. “That I came from the same background. I didn’t want him to know that I’m actually the daughter of a rich, upper-clade gerontocrat. That I was born and raised in Hong Kong, not Los Angeles.”

There. She’s said it, come clean. Instead of feeling relieved, she feels sick to her stomach. Soiled and embarrassed by the truth.

“You don’t look
chinita
.”

“My mother’s English. I don’t know who my father is. Argentine, maybe. My mother never told me.” Not only is she a fraud but an illegitimate one.

“So you took an antipher when you came here from HK,” the old woman surmises. “To fit in. Make yourself compatible.”

“That’s how I met Beto. After I got here, I was sick. He took me to a black-market clinic.”

The old woman mulls this over. “I didn’t know Beto did that kind of thing. I just assumed he . . .” She shakes her head.

“Beto does a lot of pro bono charity work,” Anthea says. “Helps out nonprofit clinics when they have an emergency or special needs.” She’s not sure she should be confiding this.

“Where’s your mother now?” Rigo’s mom asks. “Does she know where you are? How you’re doing?”

“I don’t know.” In answer to both questions.

“Don’t you care?”

Good question. One Anthea’s not sure she has the answer to. “I’m not sure
she
cares. We didn’t exactly part on the best of terms.”

“Well, I’m sure she misses you. Still loves you— wishes that she could see you again now that you’re grown up. A woman.” She states this with conviction, with the certainty of a mother who has suffered disappointments.

“That may be,” Anthea concedes. “But I don’t want to see her. I don’t want to go back and pick up where we left off.” Because that’s what would happen. No doubt about it.

“Was she so bad? Was your life with her really that terrible?”

Anthea lets out a weary sigh. “To be honest, Mama, it was horrible. Worse than you can imagine.”

“What did she do to make you hate her?”

Anthea stares at her entwined hands, can’t meet the old woman’s gaze. “This is difficult.” She feels like Ibrahim, avoiding the past. Running from it the way she would an apparition.

“Did she do it out of malice,
mija
?”

“I don’t know. She said she was doing it for my own good, that one day I would understand. Thank her.”

“But you don’t believe her.”

“No. She was punishing me.”

“Sometimes that’s what love looks like,” the old woman says. “Not always. But more often than people think.”

“She locked me up. Confined me to our ap by dosing me with an early military nonlethal she got her hands on—a pherion that eventually evolved into one of the first biodependency pherions. I still have to take an antipher to counteract it. That’s one of the reasons I’m so skinny, can’t have children. The drug messes with my hormones. I don’t metabolize normally.”

“How long did this go on?”

“She kept me a prisoner for over a year. Wouldn’t let me go anywhere. I tried to leave once. Walked out of the ap and took the elevator to the main lobby. Before I made it to the front door, it felt like I was being cut all over with jagged glass.” Anthea clasps her hands together, squeezing the blood from her fingers. “Not just on the outside, but inside, too.”

Rigo’s mother puts a hand on her forearm. “No wonder you ran away, wanted to hurt her back.”

“I couldn’t live with her after that. So I became everything she didn’t want me to be. Her worst nightmare.”

A grimace crinkles the old woman’s face. “But why,
mija
?
Por que?
How come she did this thing to you?”

It’s hard not to hear the unspoken implication, intended or not, that it was somehow her fault. That she must have done something terrible to deserve such severe treatment.

“I was close friends with a boy,” Anthea says, forcing her fingers to relax, feeling a sudden ache in her joints brought by the resurgent tingle of blood.

“Older?”

“Of course. Fourteen. My mother didn’t want me seeing him. She was afraid we were—” Anthea snorts, a truncated laugh.

The old woman raises one brow. “Were you?”

“No. It wasn’t that kind of friendship. He was bent. But there was no convincing my mother. Plus, he was from India. The son of a refugee. Very poor. Not suitable for someone of my education and upbringing. The price for refusing not to see him was not seeing anyone.”

“You couldn’t have any visitors at all?”

“Not at first. After a year, she let a couple of my girlfriends come over. But only those who were from families she could trust, and only for a short while. An hour a day at the most.”

“What did you do the rest of the time?”

“Studied. Spent a lot of time online. Reading. Streaming music. Watching tons of old projector movies. Went crazy. Plotted my escape.”

“How did you get away?”

“A girlfriend smuggled in a temporary antipher. It counteracted the pherion long enough for me to LOHop to San Jose. I wanted to get as far away as fast as I could.”

The old woman sucks at her teeth. “You haven’t been able to get an antidote to make you fertile again? Reverse the sterilization?”

“No. It’s complicated. No one I’ve gone to has been able to figure it out. After a while, I stopped trying.” Resigned herself to staying on medication. “I look at it as a disease now. Something incurable that I was born with.”