Yarn (20 page)

"Don't knock that!"

I turned to the guide, my hand raised. Vada stepped before me.

"Tane," she said coolly and softly. "I'm sorry."

What are the chemical and mechanical processes that cause one's throat to tighten, eyes to water, and chest to harden like cement?

The pneumatic gun fired again. Now there were only two ahead of Rik. He stood with his back straight and his chin high as if to prove his righteousness.

Something came halfway up my throat before I could choke it back down. "Let's get out of here," I told Vada.

She stroked my shoulder, and said to the guide, "His dad was recycled."

"No," I told her. "He had a rash. M-Bunny took him."

"For smuts and rots… that's called a cultivation," said the guide, as the gun discharged.

"It was a Xirash," I screamed at him. "No one in the slubs knew what the hell it was! It was nothing. He died for nothing."

The man frowned and pointed past me. "Cultivation is on the other side of the building." The gun fired again. "I can show you."

I had to get away. I turned and started walking. We passed large dirty machines that chugged and rattled so loudly I couldn't hear Vada or the guide. The hot air smelled terrible and I thought I was going to vomit.

We stopped in a clearing of machinery. "Those are the incubators." The guide was pointing to a row of what looked like portable enterjohns. One was being washed out by a man wearing a soiled non-woven mask over his mouth and nose.

And then, above the noise, I heard the gun clearly. Rik. I stopped. Water swelled in my eyes and my throat seemed to shut. Years ago, when we were only half as tall as the mature corn, we had pretended to be men together. We had pulled clumps of silk from the ears and stuck it on our faces to make mustaches, laughing when it fell off.

Vada stepped beside me. "I'm sorry. I had no idea we would see someone you knew."

Wiping my eyes, I wanted to turn and run, but I couldn't even speak, my windpipe was so taut.

The guide was going on about how long the sick men were kept in the boxes, what they were fed, and how the germs were harvested if they got worse.

Before I knew it, the tour was done and Vada and I stood outside again in the dry swirling heat. The sky was impossibly bright and the corn leaves reflected the sun like mirrors. Closing my eyes for a few moments, I exhaled all the way, trying to empty my lungs of the bitter factory air. I could hear Vada beside me still fastening her clothes.

"I hate this place." I squinted at the undulating leaves. "It should be destroyed. This shouldn't exist. I mean all of this… the corn… the men… the reps! And this damn building! It's all a huge lie, and I used to believe it. I used to think that the cities were the problem and that we were saving the world. I loved the corn and thought it was better than people."

Vada closed the last button at her neck and nodded. "This is a nightmare created by Bunné. There are fifty other buildings like this. She has to be stopped."

I could have ended up exactly like Rik. If my father hadn't found me, and if I hadn't taken that yarn from him, I would have eventually walked into the recycling center beside Rick, proud and ready. I had eaten Miss Bunné's EcoDogs, her KobNockers, her TakoDrops, and drunk her colas. I had worn her awful B-shirts and shorts. And most of all, I had believed the promise of M-Bunny's vision: of her sweet corn, of her reclaimed land, of her quiet and gentle men, of the stinging, beautiful smell of her pollen drop.

Vada looked up. "We need to get back to the Europa."

SEATTLEHAMA: FIRST GLIMPSE OF THE INCOMPARABLE SUPREME CELEB: MISS BUNNÉ AND A BLUE MINI-T

Once I knew what to look for in Seattlehama, I began to see Miss Bunné's influence everywhere. She hadn't just influenced Kira, her warTalk, and her skivvé. While Miss Bunné's face wasn't as ubiquitous as Tinyko 200, Elodi, or Strawberry Five, I learned that all songs, dance, and stories were
cloth woven with Bunné yarn
. If it didn't reference her, it didn't exist. She was language; the rest, merely words. I watched clips of her epics from popular surveillance. The sapphire of Seattlehama was a tall, beautiful woman with sharp cheekbones, green eyes, and a wide, pouting mouth. Some said she was just eighteen, others speculated that she was closer to one hundred and eighteen. To me, she looked like she might be in her early forties with hints of age around her eyes and mouth. Sometimes her hair glittered chrome, others a rich neon black, others a glowing isotope red. And as malleable was her hair, so were her mannerisms, and from what I could tell, her personality. Sometimes she was demure and shy; her head tilted slightly to the side and her eyelids fluttering like moth wings. Other times her eyes glowed with fury, bright beams in the night.

Her epics,
Wicked Lover Coma Dancer, Sweet Way Surgery Duo
-and her biggest-
Sensitive Dead Penisless Boys
were violent, heroic happening/dramas that always began with her in distress only to be saved by her real-life love interest. They included impossible feats of group fighting, syrupy songs, speeches, elaborate dance numbers with thousands of participants, grotesque sex scenes, and long talks about her philosophy, opinions, and shopping experiences.

During my times in Seattlehama I rarely heard anything but admiration for her, so it wasn't until years later that I heard rumors about her shadowy underworld origins, immorally auctioned egg-splits, her influence on the Xi yarn factories, the reports of killing squads, and the massive corruption of her corporation.

After returning to the city, still shaken and angry, I headed back to Pilla's bedroom thinking she would be concerned. Instead she was furious.

"Where were you?" she demanded. "You didn't even show up at the haberdashery! I looked all over!"

"I was shopping."

She stepped closer. "After your work, come straight here. No more shopping for you. Understand?"

"Zanella told me to study women's clothes."

"The only women's clothes you will study will be my Pearl Rivers."

I laughed at her. "You don't own me."

Pilla scowled at me. "You shouldn't be walking around the city like you are! Trust me, get a makeover. Dress like some epic character."

I snorted. "Like who? Rose Farmer Soundless Assassin?" I had tailored a Rose Farmer at YeOld#1, and recalled the elaborate and absurd petal-covered mask.

"No assassins! Get something good. Do you understand? I thought you were dead! I had no idea what happened. You must be careful!"

Guilty, imagining her running down hallways shouting my name, I wondered if she was afraid of Withor or his yarn rippers finding me. I didn't dare tell her that I'd run into Vit.

"I'll tell the haberdashery you're going to be another couple of hours." Before she headed to the Xi boutique, she dropped me off at a salon near her place and, for the next hour, I sat in an enterchair while my hair was bleached and lengthened and my eyes darkened. I was then dressed as epic character Fleece Swansdown from
Super Cut Powder Boys
in a layered blonde suit and a floor-length gulix jacket.

When I arrived at the haberdashery the saleswarrior in charge just shrugged and pointed me toward the design room. Inside, I found a jumble of weaving machinery, design equipment, shirts, stays, handkerchiefs, belts, ties, and cufflinks across the floor.

"You the new one?" asked an old warrior, sitting at a sewing machine. "Start straightening up."

"What happened?"

"Attempted hostile takeover."

For hours I silently picked, sorted, and stacked up the stuff from the floor while the old warrior scowled. I hated the job, but didn't care as all I could think about was heading up to the top of the city to see Bunné's Boutique.

When the store closed, the warrior grunted, "Be on time tomorrow."

I nodded on my way out. From the store, I raced out to the nearest entervator port, boarded the Ring Bell, and headed up to floor 999 of The Zea Building.

While the entertainers in the Ring Bell, dressed as decapitated cats, danced and fought with long, sharp claws, I wondered what I would find, but assumed it would be like the usual Seattlehama store with lots of empty space, loud, live music, soulless saleswarriors, and dresses, parasols, fleck shoes.

It still seemed impossible that the M-Bunny I knew, the one of suffering, and corn, could be the same powerful celebrity whose boutique capped the city I had gazed up at from the crop so many times.

It took thirty-five minutes to reach floor 999. The pure white port was nearly empty and the platinum-floored shopways weren't crowded with the usual hordes. Only a few shoppers strutted here and there and they wore real and elaborate costumes-not the rented junk from places like YeOld#1CostumeShoppee.

A saleswarrior loosely wrapped in black ribbon stood before a shop with a pearl and smoke entrance. She looked me up and down with disdain and then opened her mouth wide. Instead of teeth and a tongue, hers was filled with whirring gears and spindles. What that was, what it meant, I didn't know. Clearly, the top of the Zea was different.

At the end of a cul-de-sac, I came to the entrance to Boutique Bunné. From the outside, it looked like an average store decorated in midnight blues with an array of light jets weaving patterns, but once I stepped past the muttering saleswarriors, the place expanded. Inside, the boutique was hundreds of tintedglass-floors high, spider webbed by a network of miniature entervators fluttering up and down. Directly above, on the roof, I could see an enormous open-air atrium filled with consumers.

A saleswarrior in a sky-blue jacket, with short black hair and pyrite eyes, stepped before me. "The tides of darkness, shopper Fleece Swansdown. I am your heart and credit. You will surrender with me before the ornaments of happiness and liberty." Shiny leather boots rose to her hirsute crotch. The heels were as sharp as pins. "One hour…" she said, as red numbers flashed inside the black beads of her choker. "If I have not assisted your material freedom and truth, the necklace will cut my air."

"I'm just looking."

She closed her eyes and when she reopened them the beads on her necklace flickered to 59:99:99, and began counting down. "Our shopping has begun. My death has a moment and time." She eyed me and smiled. "My life remaining is all to help you."

I glanced at the other customers and the other saleswarriors and wondered if I could get away from her. "I'm not here to buy anything."

"My breath is but interest on tomorrow." Two more saleswarriors came toward us. Necklace introduced both, but I didn't get their complicated names and titles. One held an IMG wand; the other had on an antenna jacket and was writing in the air. "They will document our journey, our trials, and our success."

"I'm just looking," I repeated with a sigh. "I'm just curious about Bunné."

She shook her head slowly. "Souvenir is memory."

The warrior with the wand flashed us with light. Covering my face, I said, "No, I just came to look!"

"Come," said Necklace with a bow. "I will show you the true universe of Bunné."

Reluctantly, I squeezed into one of the small entervators with them. Necklace whisked us to another floor, and the doors opened on a circular showroom where dresses, slacks, and blouses hung suspended in the air. The space was silent, the air sweet and cool, and as I stepped out, I could see that the garments were incredible. Each yarn, each stitch, each pleat, each button was in proportion and rhythm. I stopped before a simple blue skirt.

The yarn was some incredibly high-twist satellite wool, deeply saturated, and while it was nothing more than simple twill it was gorgeous and fine. When I touched it, I found it as warm and supple as the side of a woman's neck. The drape was absolutely true. The two darts, the waistband, the single small button on the side closure were all refined and perfectly in balance with the whole. And the topstitching around the waist was pure music, for somehow Bunné had sewn on the beat of the cloth, that is, each stitch fell the same exact number of yarns from the last.

I found more garments with ingenious refinements, luxurious fabrics, and stitches metered in perfect harmony. And as much as I had admired the workmanship of the skivvé saleswarriors, Kira included, and the geometry and details of Zanella's jackets, Bunné's creations stirred me in a way I could not describe.

From there, Necklace took us to another showroom, where I considered the hems on Bunné's jackets, the finishes on her foundation garments, and the weave of her six-millioncount broadcloth. I was in awe. Her ideas were incredible, her technique, faultless, and the execution, complete.

"This is astonishing," I told Necklace. "I've been studying fashion, but her things… are perfection. They're ideals, like pure forms somehow transformed into real yarn. It's like I'm seeing truth for the first time." I gazed into the saleswarrior's blank eyes and saw my own reflection and my own dreams. I was meant to find this. "The way she cuts and sews is exactly right." Images of wrinkled landscapes, grids, and rhythms of my youth came to me. "This is what I dreamed."

Necklace's sharp eyebrows dipped suspiciously as the other two furiously documented what I had said. "You see beyond the bag and beyond the credit," she whispered. With a bow, she added, "It's an honor to shop with you."

On another floor she showed me Bunné's miniatures: tiny hats suitable for a thumb, shirts that could lay flat on a palm, and slacks that fit two fingers. "We sell a thousand times our hot couture in minis."

And in fact this floor was filled with customers mixing and matching little shoes with dresses and handbags, but I wasn't impressed. These had none of the artistry of her real clothes. The materials seemed stiff and cheap; the sewing was haphazard, and while they were cute, they weren't at all the same objects of art.

I asked the saleswarrior to take me back to the couture floors, but at the end of the hallway, before we came to another minientervator bank, I saw a simple blue T-shirt in a large gilt frame. On the front in precise embroidery it read:
Whisper in My Ear
. I stopped and gazed at the shirt for a long time. In the slubs, our shirts had slogans sloppily printed with some rubbery-smelling off-white paste that attracted dirt and were usually unreadable in two weeks:
Rows of Love
,
I Heart Fructose
,
Drop the Pollen
,
I P Golden
,
Future Fertilizer
. Most slubbers didn't even know what they meant.