Otherness (29 page)

"Hey, now." Io laughed. "Maybe they weren't comin' on to me just because they thought of me as a fallow belly t'plant. Ever occur to you they might've found me appealing?"

"You? You skinny-arm charity case? With that out-o'-date yellow hair?"

Io feigned an insulted look.

Now Perseph's laughter was heartier. "Gotcha! First you're offended when they come on to you. Then you'd be hurt if they didn't, right?"

"No, I just wish they'd . . ."

"I'll tell you this, though, Io. I
like
codders. Some of 'em have gone far into debt to finance their conversions. Th' freelance trade would be impossible without them. We'd have to take as many risks as you and your egg—"

"Pers, I never said—"

"And something else, Io. They put a lot more
enthusiasm
into their work than Joey and his hoity-toity ovum designers do. Ever thought there could be pleasure involved in this business, Io? Nawi, I didn't think so. But I tell you it's a helluva lot more natural with codders than with Joey's lot and all their tubes and wires. . . ."

Perseph had that gleam in her eye again, a seething sexual energy. She was talking herself into it. Io knew it would culminate quite soon in her friend grabbing the nearest tumescent codpiece, without even asking to see the owner's prospectus, let alone his tattoo.

"Pers, are you remembering to take your pills? You don't want to get knocked at a
party
, for the love of—"

"You mind your own damn business!" Perseph stood up and her chair fell over. "I don't give you advice on your blasted eggs. Don't
you
tell me where I oughta shop for seed!"

All at once Io knew. This wasn't the first time for Perseph. That unsatisfactory load of commercial-grade solvent filters she'd delivered some months back—she hadn't taken the job through a city agent, or even negotiated the surropreg herself. She'd gone and let some random codder inseminate her—probably just somebody who pleased her sexually—as if that said anything at all about the quality of his wares!

Mixing business and pleasure, letting your professional standards lapse, these were the beginning of the end for a craftswoman, especially a pieceworker. Io had an instant fey vision of Perseph in a few years—too far gone to win decent contracts, physically too shabby to draw a codder into making a deposit on spec. She'd wind up taking bulk-grade semen and producing goods no better than a fabricow's. Finally, she'd lose her guild standing, and it would be the dole for her, full-time.

The dole would kill Perseph. Without the focus of work,
some
kind of work, the lure of drugs and soaps would soon take her out of the world.

It was only a narrow precognitive instant, but at that moment Io's eyes locked with the other woman's. Io's cheeks felt aflame with how, in that moment, she involuntarily betrayed her friend, not only by seeing, but by
showing
on her face that she had seen. From Io, Perseph had not received the lies that were a comrade's duty to tell, but a severe mirror, laying bare a fate she already knew, deep inside.

"I—I gotta go make a phone call." Perseph started to turn, unsteadily.

"Pers, I'm sor—"

"Oh, go abort a hydrocephalic traffic cop!" Perseph snarled. She whirled, knocking over their drinks, and made her way unevenly among the tables, leaving Io alone in the middle of a crowded room suddenly too filled with truth.

. . .
It can be hard for a modern citizen to realize just how inefficient our ancestors were, even in the bustling industrial centers of the fabulous twentieth. But what enabled the people of those times to build the first globe-spanning culture, to tame nature, to educate the masses and begin the conquest of space, was a system that depended essentially upon profligate waste
.

For instance, a single gram of gold—vital for modern electronics—could be acquired only by tearing out of the Earth, pulverizing, and washing several
tons
of ore. Beyond the now obvious environmental effects, this also required prodigious use of energy, which was already growing scarce even by the turn of the century
.

From high-tech consumer goods to simple breakfast cereals, far more resources had to be put into each item the consumer bought than ever came out as product. With billions of people to feed—and clothe and educate and entertain—there was only one option, to switch to renewable processes that used resources more efficiently. The alternative was to face a culling such as had not been seen since the Black Death
.

Biotechnology offered a way
.

Today gene-tailored microbes refine gold and other vital elements directly from seawater. Organic solvents, once unbelievably dumped into sensitive watersheds by shortsighted businessmen, are now recycled through filters grown specially for the purpose by pampered, well-fed fabricows. And these same animals' modified milk glands produce lubricants to replace long-vanished petroleum oil in our vehicles. In this way we make use of efficient fabrication methods evolved over billions of years by Nature herself
.

As for products at the very cutting edge of technology, whose quality standards exceed what can be accomplished with animals, these are today put into production by a labor force dedicated to high craftsmanship. And yet these jobs are not restricted, as in the past, to the skilled or the privileged. Rather, they are attainable even on a part-time basis by men and women of good health from any social class
.

She met him in the Reykjavík airport lounge.

His manner was courteous, his stance and bearing unselfconsciously athletic.

The clothes he wore showed tasteful reticence, not the bright excess that overcompensating dole clients so often mistook for fashion.

And, although he was obviously Eastern European in origin, he had the good grace not to wear leather here in the West, where sensibilities now rejected products made from the death of animals.

For a while they talked about the books she had been studying while awaiting her flight. But soon they were in one of those exciting, open-topic conversations that touch lightly on a fascination with the world itself. Io made no effort to suppress the sudden feelings coursing through her. The methods of emotional control she had learned in school were still too new, too abstract. Anyway, who wanted to damp down anything as pleasant as hope?

In his rich, cosmopolitan accent, Wiktor offered to buy her dinner. There was plenty of time, and no hint that he wanted or expected anything in return but companionship. She accepted demurely, then hurriedly added a smile, lest he take her shyness for reluctance.

As she had secretly hoped, he passed his credit card across the face of the robot maitré d' at the first-class dining room, and took her arm as a pink ribbon of light guided them through a maze of candlelit tables to a window setting overlooking the lights of the city.

He also made mistakes . . . smelling the wine cork instead of feeling it, for instance. Obviously he had dined in class before, but neither was he so accustomed to this lifestyle as to be blasé or patronizing.

Io knew about wine corks only from having read an obscure magazine in Joey's waiting room. It actually pleased her that Wiktor showed such minor lapses, an almost imperceptible trace of latent, slight awkwardness. She had no ambition to stake a place in the circles of the rich and renowned. But his nodding acquaintance with finer things spoke of relaxed eclecticism, the comfortable worldliness of a professional . . . a man with a real job. Someone who
did
something.

Would she, in three years' time, be able to walk into a place such as this without feeling heart palpitations? Would she wear such a relaxed smile? Or order from a menu with such confidence?

Would she meet the sort of men who made the world move and grow better with their skill? Perhaps one who cared about the same craft she had been studying for so long and hard?

Naturally, the subject of his profession never came up on this, an initial encounter. Her present trade was obvious from her attire, and from her tumescence, but they never mentioned it. He spoke instead about the aurora, visible even from here, so near the urban lights. A hint indicated that he might once have seen them from
above
—from space—but he did not follow up on that, nor did Io pursue it.

It was perfectly all right to speak of Earthly travels, though, since all classes were encouraged tourism. The superconducting rails made it cheaper than many other entertainments people might have demanded, and social planners considered it helpful. Tourists waged few wars.

Io felt ashamed of how little she had seen, how little she had to tell. But Wiktor made up for her lack. He had been to Merseyside many times, for instance—both Liverpool and Ellesmere Port—and he spoke with fondness of the Lake District, her own favorite place in all the world.

Against her usual habit when in production, Io allowed herself a single glass of wine. Of course she had memorized the tolerance tables long ago, and knew no harm would come to . . . her toaster.

Memory of that colorful euphemism triggered a nervous giggle. But then it also caused her to think of Perseph, and that made her suddenly sad. Their parting had been cool. Io had no idea what the future would bring, but the note of finality between them made her vision film as she thought about it.

Gyrating emotions. Damn. An occupational hazard. But what a time to have an attack of surropreg blues!

"I—I don't know what's got over me," she said as she wiped her eyes. "Would you excuse me while I—" She gestured in the direction of the lavatories. His smile was bemused, understanding. "Of course," he said. "I will order you that special dessert I mentioned earlier. And"—his grin broadened—"a glass of fruit juice."

"Thanks. That might be best." She laughed, and departed with a smile.

He didn't even try to pressure me into having another glass of wine
, she mused as she negotiated her abdomen toward the ladies' room. Many men would take it as a challenge to try to get her drunk, even knowing she was leaving within a few hours. Some rites of machismo she never understood, however many times they were explained. Wiktor, though, seemed a gentleman.

A low wall topped by a decorative hedge separated the dining room proper from the gilt-wallpapered passage to the toilets. On her way out again, Io paused to check her composure. She wanted a friendly openness that would invite him to ask her watchcom number.

Io took a momentary guilty peek through the shrubbery, feeling like a little girl spying covertly on an older boy, the object of a delicious secret desire. A waiter had just turned away from their table, blocking her view for a moment. Then Wiktor could be seen moving a freshly filled glass of orange liquid to her setting, beside a plate containing something reddish and gold—the promised dessert.

His quick glance in her direction almost made her duck down. His facial expression puzzled Io briefly as he fussed with his jacket pocket. For an instant he looked relieved. Then Wiktor turned to his left—her right—and seemed to nod to somebody seated among the dim booths and shadowed dining cubbies.

Had he recognized someone he knew? Hardly surprising, considering the circles he kept.

Composing her features, Io emerged from behind the wall and smiled as she approached the table.
He is old-fashioned
, she thought as he rose to hold her chair for her. "What's this?" She dabbed her fork at the creamy eruption on her plate.

"A surprise. You'll like it."

A forkful hesitated near her nose. "It smells spicy."

"It is." He smiled. "That's why I ordered you something to drink. But I'm sure you'll love it." With that he winked and took a portion from his own serving into his mouth. The goggle-eyed pantomime of pleasure that followed made Io laugh.

The dessert was delicious. It also made her eyes water. "Well!" She coughed. "I certainly won't have any trouble with my sinuses during the flight!"

"It always makes me thirsty," he said, taking a sip of wine. Watching his eyes, she reached for the brimming glass of orange juice.

Would she have suspected anything if she had not gone to school? Had she never studied the hard-won wisdom of a century's research, she might never have known about those subtle cues given off by child and man, in eye and face and voice, that betray inner unease.

But then, Io's knowledge was still abstract. So maybe it was instinct—unreliable but desperately useful when it strikes—that made her notice the intense way Wiktor watched her hand.

She put the glass down before it was more than an inch high. His gaze immediately flicked to her face. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

Please. No
, she prayed.

"No, nothing's wrong." She lifted another forkful of the pungent sweet. "I was just savoring the taste."

He seemed to notice the speculation in her eyes, and averted his gaze. That was a mistake. Now he
avoided
looking at the juice glass.

The second spicy taste added power to the first. Io's throat burned, her nostrils felt singed. Still she kept her hand on the table and concentrated on remembering her lessons.

Speaking with a measured voice, she said, "Actually, I think I will have another glass of wine, after all."

Rapid impressions she read almost instantly—brief panic-contraction in the pupils . . . a faint, barely noticeable flush wave, crossing his cheeks at an unsatisfactory angle . . . that involuntary frown, quickly compressed into a slightly asymmetrical smile with the practice of an accomplished poseur . . .

An experienced liar, then. But not a trained one.

The man Io hoped someday to find would not lie. But he would have taken schooling in what lying
does
. How it is seen, detected, known.

This man, for all his money and worldliness, had never been to school.

"More wine? In your condition?" He laughed teasingly. A little patronizingly. "Now, Io. Don't try to prove how tough you are. Be a good girl and drink your vitamins."