Resolution (12 page)

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8

TERRA AD 2160

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[1]

It was a December night, black and cold over Zurich. White snow slid softly from the sky. From the false Christmas tree, formed of wide floating disks decorated with greenery, with boughs of pine and sprigs of holly, the choir’s voices rose sweetly into the chill air.

Bystanders, their shopping temporarily forgotten, stopped to listen.

Ro, in her heavy jumpsuit and muffler, stood between Dirk and Kian and hugged her twin boys towards her. They stiffened before giving in: they were fifteen years old, identical, alternately awkward and mature.

Golden holoflames flickered among the children in the six-metre-tall artificial tree, while very real white snow was caked atop the green pine branches, and on the shoulders and red caps of the children. They sang:

‘Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht
...’

It was a small square off the luxurious Bahnhofstrasse. The miniature park was surrounded by cobblestone pathways where vendors hawked intricate craft items from tent-like stalls, and sold hot chestnuts and fat-spitting sausages from crackling braziers.

Beyond, over the Bahnhofstrasse thoroughfare, long rows of white/gold holo stars glimmered in the air, overlooking some of the most exclusive and expensive stores in Europe. They were still open, this late on a December night: the Swiss take their Christmas shopping seriously.

A lifetime ago, Mother had taken Ro to this very square.

I
miss you.

But she was gone. Last year, as summer slid into autumn, Karyn McNamara had slipped quietly from the world.

Dirk’s infostrand beeped. He wore it wrapped helically around the bronze torc encircling his neck: all the fashion this year.

Sorry,
he mouthed to his mother, as bystanders looked round.

He walked away, muttering to the holo image lased into his grey contact lenses.

After the call was finished, Dirk remained where he was. Frowning, Ro gave Kian’s sleeve a tug, and they went to join Dirk.

‘It was Josette,’ he said to Kian. ‘She’s in the café.’

‘The Royale?’

‘Ouais, d’accord.’

‘Well, what kind of
espèce de crétin
does she think you are?’

Ro, who was as quintilingual as her sons, said: ‘Not the kind to stand her up, I hope.
On m ‘a posé un lapin
when I was her age, and I was pissed.’

‘Mother ...’ Dirk looked pained. Kian checked that no-one nearby had overheard Ro’s coarse language; in her youth, it would have been considered mild.

‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘Dirk’s too soft to give her the heave-ho.’

Ro looked at Dirk.

‘Josette and Lorraine had a little meeting,’ he said. ‘They
decided
that Josette was the one who was going to have me.’

‘And which of them,’ asked Ro, ‘do you prefer?’

Dirk shrugged. Kian answered for him:

‘Neither one of them.’

In the artificial tree, now lit by bright white light as the snowfall grew heavier, the school choir began to sing in Latin, calling the faithful to the cause.

‘
Adeste fideles
...’

‘You have to tell her, Dirk.’ Ro chucked him under the chin.

Dirk refused to be annoyed by the gesture. He was growing up.

‘I know I should, but—’

It was Kian who finished the sentence:

‘—I’ll do it instead.’

‘Now look, boys ...’

Ro let her voice trail off. Kian was already striding away through the snow.

‘What?’ Dirk shrugged. ‘I’d do the same for him.’

‘You would?’ said Ro. ‘Or you already have?’

‘I—’

‘No.’ Ro held up her gloved hands. ‘I don’t want to know.’

They‘re growing up.

Dirk chuckled.

Way too fast.

Part of the problem, Ro concluded, as she walked arm in arm with Dirk towards the main station, the magnificent old Hauptbahnhof, was the length of time she spent away.

A red thermoacoustic tram, with a man dressed as Santa in nominal control (the onboard AI was in charge, freeing Santa to dispense jolly bonhomie), hissed past above the snow-covered cobblestones. The lighting was a cheerful golden glow. Passengers smiled at each other or peered out, delighted at the sights.

If I were thirty-seven,
she wondered,
would they take me more seriously?

That was the age Ro would be, had she remained earthbound. In fact, she bent the ultra-relativistic mu-space geodesies to far greater limits than UNSA planners suspected. No wonder she looked more like the twins’ sister than their mother.

They crossed the street, passed the seated statue which frowned down upon the waiting travellers, seated in their bubble-lounges waiting for trams. Inside the station proper, transparent laminate covered the stone, preserved its baroque splendour. Holo adverts gleamed in shop windows. New-fangled morphslides had replaced the ancient escalators; Ro hoped that bioarchitecture would not replace the old buildings.

‘Dirk? You want to go down?’

The boys, when they were younger, had loved to descend to the platforms and watch the big yellow double-decker mag-trains whisk away, or deliver crowds of passengers, many with snow-shoes or skis, into the city’s heart.

‘No thanks, Mom.’

Growing up.

Josette, with slightly pouting lips, her honey-coloured hair drawn back with a papillon mag-clasp, was hunched over an espresso, reading the tabletop display. Fashion news, Kian guessed.

Josette looked up, and wiped the display to neutral navy-blue.

‘Grüezi,’
called Alberto from behind the zinc-topped counter.
‘Wie geht’s?’

‘Guten Abend.’
Kian used the local pronunciation:
oh-bent.
He spoke Schweizerdeutsch by default, could switch to formal Hochdeutsch when required.
‘Also gut. Alles ist hier OK?’