Children of a Dead Earth Book One (16 page)

Whispers stirred between the others. The question had obviously struck a nerve.

“Look, I came down here alone to talk. But if I have to come back, I won't be alone, and it won't be to talk.”

Speaking in an unfamiliar language, the leader raised his voice at one of the others, but they didn't back down. Benson decided to call him Lefty. Like most people from Avalon, Benson spoke Mandarin passably himself, but this wasn't it. The vowel sounds, syntax and structure was completely different. Japanese? He decided to let the private little argument play itself out.

Lefty threw up his hands in surrender and shouted something that probably translated to “Fine, be my guest!” He turned his back on the rest of them and disappeared into the shadows. One of the men who remained nudged the girl on the shoulder. She walked up to Benson with more caution than the first time. She bowed with her arms at her sides, then held out her hands and waved them to her chest in a “give me” gesture. Benson figured she meant his barter, so he turned it over.

“Wait here,” she instructed.

“And you'll bring your elders?” he asked hopefully.

“And I will ask.” Cradling the tablet and bars in her arms, the young girl bowed again, then left. The three other men stayed behind, but they retreated to a less threatening distance and simply watched to make sure he stayed put. Benson obliged and sat back down. He wondered just how long he'd be waiting for the elders' decision.

He looked around at the gaunt faces eying him with suspicion, and decided to make the best of it.

“Anybody got a deck of cards?”

A
s it happened
, they didn't, but one of them did have a bag of Mahjong tiles. After a brief struggle, they agreed to the Old Hong Kong rules to give Benson a fighting chance, then proceeded to embarrass him in successive games anyway. It was just as well the Ark didn't use hard currency, because they would have cleaned him out.

“I think you three are ganging up on me.”

They all flashed their best “who, us?” looks and laughed. One of them even slapped Benson on the back.

“No, you just bad player.”

“Maybe, but I'd wipe the floor with you at cribbage.”

On cue, one of them reached into a backpack and pulled out a small cribbage board and a deck of cards.

“You know cribbage?”

The man shrugged. “Lot of time to kill.”

“Wait, you said you didn't have any cards!”

This was met by another round of laughter. They were enjoying jerking the foreigner around.

“Yeah, yeah.” Benson set up the board. “Which one of you jokers am I going to beat first?”

He'd just started to shuffle the cards when the phone rang in his head. It was Doctor Russell.

She didn't bother hiding the sarcasm in her voice.

Benson smirked as he dealt the cards.

The man who had volunteered to play slapped him on the hand, pulling him back to the scene in front of him. Benson glanced down and realized he'd misdealt the hand. He picked up the cards and reshuffled, then dealt them properly.

Benson's excitement almost boiled over.

Benson mentally blurted out.

It probably wouldn't be enough, Benson knew. Everything about the case was being monitored, he was sure of that. Whatever advantage surprise could have given him was gone. Still, saving a copy offline should keep it from being altered or deleted, provided Jeanine was quick enough. It would have to do.

Benson looked around at the dust and decay surrounding him.

Benson cut the link and picked up his hand, and smiled. Four, six, jack of spades, a two, and a pair of fives. It was a good start. He picked out the jack and two to throw in his crib. He'd be giving up points no matter what he threw down, but the crib had nobs at the very least, and a good chance of–

“Agong will speak with you.”

The girl's voice gave Benson a start. He'd been so focused on his conversation with Jeanine and dealing the cards right, he hadn't heard her approach.

Benson looked down at his hand and sighed at the lost chance for retribution. He stood up and turned it over to the man sitting next to him. “Here, play for me until I get back.” The man looked at the cards, then gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up.

Benson followed the young lady as she led him deeper into the darkened basement level. The third man not playing cribbage fell into formation behind him, but kept a respectful distance.

“Agong.” He knew the term. It meant “grandfather” in Mandarin in a generic sense, but it was more an informal title than a direct family association. They walked for a few minutes at least, weaving back and forth through the labyrinth of pipes that formed Shangri-La's circulatory system. Benson wasn't sure, but he got the feeling they'd circled back at least once, probably to confuse him and make it that much harder to find their hideout if he should ever try to return with ill intentions.

These people were as clever as they were cautious. Then again, you'd have to be to spend decades hiding right under the nose of what was probably the most invasive surveillance state in human history.

“What's your name?” Benson asked the young lady leading him.

She pointed to herself. “Mei.”

“Yes, you.”

She rolled her eyes. “No, Mei.”

“Oh, right. Sorry. Have you always lived here, Mei?”

“Agong will talk to you.”

“Yes, I know, but I want to talk to you as well.”

“Agong says not to.”

And that was the end of the conversation. Ahead, light shone through a bramble of pipes. The air took on the distinct odor of ammonia the closer they came to the… settlement. The smell came from stacks of trays from floor to ceiling, tended by young members. Benson stepped off to take a look. The trays slid out to reveal a layer of dirt and perfectly white, round–

“Mushrooms.” Morel, shitake, and a half dozen other varieties poked up out of the rich, dark soil. He picked a small button mushroom from the bed and snapped off the stem, then popped it in his mouth. “Can't beat farm fresh.”

The youth tending the stack of mushrooms looked up at him with a mix of terror and impotent rage. Mei came over and calmed the boy, then gently herded Benson back down the path. They passed more racks of mushroom beds, something that looked like a large, multi-stage still cobbled together from spares, and even small shacks and lean-tos complete with beds, reclaimed tables, and patchwork rugs made from carpet remnants.

It felt just like a refugee camp from the vids on old Earth. Except the people here didn't look desperate and hopeless. They seemed earnest, yet determined. The few children around pointed and laughed at the strange man passing through their village.

Then Mei stopped at the foot of what looked like a small chapel built into the pipes and bowed. A chill trickled down Benson's spine like a bead of ice water. Staring back through eyeless sockets, nine human skulls sat in three rows of three. Ever the detective, Benson reached out and scratched one of them with a fingernail to see if it was genuine bone, but Mei's hand shot out and slapped him as though he was a child reaching for the cookie jar.

“Don't. Touch. Anything.” She poked him in the chest with each period to accentuate the point.

Benson held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry.”

She mumbled something unflattering about his possible ancestry in Japanese, then continued walking. They came to the source of the lights; trellises of tomatoes, squash, and grapes glowed brightly under strips of grow lights, exactly the same sort he'd helped to maintain years ago working in the aeroponics farm, solving the mystery of why some of the units they'd sent in for refurbishment had never returned from the shop.

At the epicenter of the farms and shacks stood a… something or other. To call it a building would be an insult to many centuries of architects. Its walls were a patchwork of sheet metal and plastic laminate built in and around the pipes and ductwork. It looked like an angular beehive with tree branches sticking out of it at right angles.

A worn shower curtain served as a door. Mei pulled it aside and beckoned him to follow. Inside, an old man leaned over a bonsai tree. Several others in varying sizes sat in tiny pots on a shelf to the left of his small workspace. He wore thinning gray hair tied back in a ponytail. On the other side of the large room, Lefty regarded him with a scowl. Next to him, a young girl no more than eight or nine chatted excitedly while she worked on her own project. Before Benson could see what it was, the old man stood up and approached him.

“Thank you for coming, Chief Benson. I'm sorry to have kept you waiting.”

Benson took his outstretched hand and shook it firmly. Something about the man's face cried out for attention. Benson studied his eyes, cheekbones and jawline, trying to look past the wrinkles and liver spots to the foundation of the man. A flash of recognition burst into Benson's mind as he realized he was shaking hands with a dead man.

“Ah, now you see me,” David Kimura said.

Benson blinked twice, dumbstruck. It wasn't often he found himself at a loss for words, but shaking hands with a genuine ghost was enough to paralyze his tongue. David Kimura had been dead for thirty years. Longer. He was a legend, and his untimely death had been interpreted as a subtle warning to the cattle not to push too hard against their fences. But here he was, in the flesh, which didn't appear to be reanimated.

“You're David Kimura?” Benson asked. The older man nodded. “But you're dead.”

Kimura raised an untrimmed eyebrow, then patted himself on the chest. “I don't feel particularly dead. I do hope your deductive skills are usually better than that, my son.”

“I mean,” Benson struggled to regain his mental balance. “I mean, you're
supposed
to be dead.”

The older man smiled. “And that is what you were, until this very moment,
supposed
to believe. Let's just say that reports of my death were deliberately exaggerated and leave it at that for now. You're a long way from home, detective. What brings you down here?”

“I'm investigating a murder.”

“Yes, so I've heard. First one in years, thanks in no small part to your performance at the helm of the constables.” He placed an odd inflection on “performance”.

“Was that a slight, Mr Kimura?”

“No, not at all. You've proven well suited to the role.” The inflection again, on “role” this time. “But it does beg the question of what you're doing here in Shangri-La's basement. Aren't you outside your jurisdiction?”

Benson shrugged. “Yes, but because of that, I can be more… selective in the sorts of things I remember to report when I get back.” He glanced over his shoulder to where Mei stood at the doorway. “And it's a good thing, too.”

Kimura saw the disapproval in Benson's eyes. He waved to Lefty and Mei, then asked them to leave them in private for a few minutes. Lefty, whose real name was apparently Huang, stared a couple of daggers at Benson as he passed, but said nothing. Mei bowed deeply and let the shower curtain fall closed.

Kimura put a hand on Benson's shoulder and gently turned him towards the work station where he'd been pruning the tiny tree. He picked it up, delicately, reverently.

“Are you familiar with the art of bonsai, detective?”

Benson nodded. “You starve trees to stunt their growth.”

“Starve them?” Kimura turned and held the tree up for his inspection. “Tell me, detective, does this tree look like it's starving to you?”

Benson played along and regarded the tree with more than just a cursory glance. The leaves, though in miniature, were full and a vibrant green. They even sported the beginnings of flower buds. He had to admit, it looked perfectly healthy.

“No, I suppose it doesn't.”

“Of course not. A starving tree withers and dies. But this one will blossom soon, and even produce apples. It is a tree, full and complete. The art is in finding the right balance.” He set it back on the shelf among its fellows. “Do you see the lesson?”

“Enlighten me.”

Kimura sighed. “The lesson is that beauty and fulfillment can be found even among great scarcity. Bonsai arose in Japan, and for good reason. With so many people crammed into such a small space, with such limited natural resources, it's no wonder that they could make an art out of using less. We find ourselves in a similar situation here.”

Benson gritted his teeth. What was it with the tree metaphors lately?

“Yes, that's a beautiful sentiment, but let's be clear on one point here. Your little commune is adding to the scarcity. I'd be surprised if there was a single Code of Conservation you're
not
breaking down here. Everything you have is stolen from everyone else.”

Kimura took the sudden assault in stride. “That's one view. But I prefer to think of it as borrowing. Every liter of water we use is purified and returned to the same pipe it was siphoned from. We grow most of our own food right here, fertilized by our own waste. What we can't grow or build for ourselves, we trade for. Things fall off the back of a truck even here on the Ark.”

“I've seen what you ‘trade' for, Kimura. It's not pretty.”

The true leader of the Ark's lost tribe sat down heavily in his chair, old knees popping on the way down. “An unfortunate necessity, I'm afraid. But all of them are adults, and they volunteer for the duty.”