Authors: C. J. Cherryh
Fo r g e o f H e a v e n • 5 5
He didn’t bring home suspicious visitors. He didn’t attract police, play loud music, wear his hair in spikes, or set off fire alarms. He was, in fact, relatively faceless in this pricey neighborhood of people who had, occasionally, children with problems; who occasionally threw big parties, who occasionally had noisy divorces and shouting matches on the doorstep, bothering everyone—as he bothered no one. He was Procyon, just Procyon, as the Fashionables chose to be, just Procyon, whose job nobody actually knew, or ventured to ask, and who, they might think, probably did his work by computer, since he wasn’t a Stylist, but lived like one. He only went out in the evenings. But few people besides the lady with the roses were home during the day to think about that. It was a neighborhood adequately respectable and not too worried about the character of anyone with the credit to be living here, which was, he was sure, why the PO decided this was the ideal place to install one of its protected talents.
Just off Grozny was his own ideal place to live, too, and he’d picked it off a very short list of PO-owned properties—close enough to the action, but not in it, so he could walk out of the Close and right onto this fashionable end of Grozny Street. The location was a dream for a young man who came out of a day’s isolation hungry for life.
He let the general traffic and the muted noise of voices ease the accumulated tension behind his eyes. He could call any of his friends, if the common tap in his head didn’t have its output channel permanently blocked. Anywhere he walked, he could get still get music on the common tap, he could get art, he could get talk; but he declined them all, cherishing the silence and privacy inside his skull. If he was like anyone else on the street, he could be tapped in, all the time, and some who only skimmed life certainly lived that way, moving constantly to their own music, talking to their personal taps, checking with a spouse about a grocery order or making an assignation with a lover, never alone in their heads, never—he suspected—
thinking
any long, deep thoughts in their lives. Himself, he
used
a tap all day long for a living, and now that he was off-line, the very last thing he wanted was abstract shapes dancing in his eyes or the latest band blasting its relentless rhythms into his chair-weary bones. He wasn’t thinking deep thoughts either 5 6 • C . J . C h e r r y h
at the moment. He just wanted to walk along in internal silence and let his brain float neutral for a while . . .
Well, give or take the burden of the dreaded anniversary gift, ink still surviving on his hand. The question was whether to make the gift personal, something he could really enjoy giving, or just give up, get something with a high price tag and be done with it.
But a personal kind of place that would also courier the item to his parents’ door—that considerably shortened the list.
He was tired of fighting his parents’ taste. There were greater problems in the universe, and the parentals he was convinced wouldn’t remember next month what gift he’d gotten them this year or last, as long as it didn’t scare them or offend them. And he wanted peace in the family. He opted for the sure thing.
Down Grozny to 12th, and up 12th to Lebeau—Glitter Street, the Trend called it, containing most of the conservative shops, frontages that competed in crystal, glass, gold, jewelry, and utterly useless knickknacks for people with far too much money. It catered to Earthers, particularly, who liked shopping on the chancy edge of the Trend—or to those who imitated Earther taste, which, he admitted sadly to himself, pretty well described his mother. He’d long since given up trying to impress his father with what he picked, and as far as impressing his mother, it wasn’t so much the gift that mattered, it was the package, it was the label. It was his parents’ thirtieth anniversary, and if his father was a cipher to him, he at least figured how to please his mother—and
that
would please his father.
It was all on him, as well. His sister certainly wasn’t going to acknowledge the parental occasion. But he kept relations with the family well polished not only because it was the right thing to do but because it was the sensible thing to do. They were dull, but they were solid as core rock, and depend on it, if things ever went wrong in his life, he’d have family, imperfect and unpleasant, but family, loyal as you could ask. They had their virtues. And maybe, if he ever totally misjudged the universe and messed up his personal life, he’d have someone he could query about his own biases, or at least analyze theirs from a mature perspective—he was old enough now to see them as people, just people, like other people.
He’d had his stint at rebellion. Now he tried compliance, top to Fo r g e o f H e a v e n • 5 7
bottom. He decided he’d give up trying to get them nice things, arty things, real art, from live people who’d admit they’d made whatever-it-was. It’s a pot, had been his father’s most telling judgment, when he’d tried to explain last year’s gift. His mother had put flowers in it.
So this anniversary, after the fiasco of the last one, he learned.
He went straight into Caprice, picked out a completely useless hand-cut crystal egg in Caprice’s signature style, such a piece of uninspired commercialism that his sister would have thrown up.
He paid the extravagant price on his own credit and ordered it delivered to Ms. Margarita Nilssen and Mr. Jerry Stafford Sr., of 309
Coventry Close, D1088, before 0815h on the 15th of May.
That was tomorrow morning, before he even got out of bed.
The clerk offered the optional gold-embossed 5.95c gift card. He signed it
With love, Jeremy & Arden,
which was fifty percent a lie and a bit of wicked humor. His sister would be outraged.
So, there, he’d done it. He smiled nicely at the salesman, who hadn’t had to work at all hard for his commission, and walked back out onto the street, free, unburdened now, and taking his own sweet time.
Best he could do. It wasn’t a pot. A former Freethinker rebel had paid good money for a hand-cut Caprice egg, and the station still turned on its axis and spun about the planet it guarded. Was that a sign of advancing maturity?
All-important point, he’d bought that expensive, logo-bearing card, and signed it with his own hand, the personal touch. It would arrive in its envelope of crisp cream vellum, as fancy as if it were going to the governor’s wife, and stand beside the egg on a conspicuous shelf for at least a month. As long as his mother was in a good mood, everybody was happy—and if the parentals were both happy enough, maybe he could claim he’d drawn overtime at work and skin out of the gruesome family dinner of overcooked meat, overdone vegetables, and his mother ’s special fruit salad.
God, he really hoped he could finagle his way out of that dinner.
He detested his cousins. He wasn’t fond of the uncles and aunts.
Most of all, he didn’t want to stand smiling through the usual battery of questions before hors d’oeuvres . . . Have you seen Arden, 5 8 • C . J . C h e r r y h
dear? Well, yes, Aunt Faye, he had, but he’d have to say no, he hadn’t, or the next deadly question was Where?
And . . . How’s the job? His father would ask at some point in the evening, as his father asked every time they met, and he’d smile and say the job was fine, then change the topic.
His parents were good and devoted sorts—not that he was sure they still loved each other, but they’d stuck together for thirty years, being good religious people and the descendants and relatives of generations of good religious people. Children were the one achievement that they were instructed by God to create with their lives. His father, after whom he was named, Jeremy Lee Stafford, was a station mechanic, which was right next to a tech, as his mother would always say.
Good pay, his dad would say, looking askance at a son who lived at a very, very fancy address, who didn’t tell his father what he made per year, or explain exactly what he did, beyond that he worked in computers for the government. Key-pushing wasn’t his father’s idea of a high-paying job.
Then his mother would convert the question back into how Arden was getting along, and whether she’d found a job, completely oblivious to how Arden was really getting along, and unaccepting of the fact that Arden was never, ever going to get a job.
Your sister could have had a
nice
job, their mother would say (he had the conversation memorized), meaning a job in the plastics shaping factory where their mother was a line supervisor. Their mother had virtually assured his sister an entry level position in household furnishings, with a clear track to good promotions in design if she took the company study program. Arden had run away to the streets the day of the scheduled interview, a fact to which their mother never quite alluded, but his father did, if he ever got into the discussion.
She should get a job,
his mother would say sadly. Followed by, with that honeyed sweetness usually reserved to herald a new baby:
We’re so proud of you.
All because, yes, he clearly had a job of some kind, and he sent them presents, hand-thrown pots and all, and occasionally showed up at the family gatherings wearing a nice suit and talking computer games with his cousins’ rotten kids, who believed, like the aunts and uncles, that he was some kind of computer expert—after Fo r g e o f H e a v e n • 5 9
all, he’d gotten a technical scholarship to university and actually graduated, while his missing sister had set her heart on fashion design, which the aunts and uncles all agreed was frivolous.
Live in the real world,
the parents would tell them both, and they both got the lecture at every mention of fashion design. So he’d graduated with a technical certificate in communications systems, and his younger sister hadn’t gotten any certificate at all, after her three years in fashion design.
Compared to his sister’s, his relations with the parentals had been sterling. Then, last unavoidable paternal birthday, he’d made the great faux pas. No, he’d let slip when pressed, he didn’t go into the office every day. He did wear a suit when he did. But he usually worked at home.
That entirely upset his parents’ image of him. Last he heard from the cousins, his anguished mother had told the aunts he was doing
part-time
work for the government. His father acted odd when the topic came up, which his mother finally confided to him was worry about the money he had and the address he had.
I have enough, he’d assured her. I’m doing all right. It’s a scarce specialty. And his mother had said, two months ago, We’re sure you do, and then confessed his father worried he was involved in organized crime.
God. From one crisis to the next. He wished he could actually breach security and tell them in strictest confidence what he did, that he was day watcher over the whole reason for Concord Station existing.
Then his father would look him straight in the eye and ask, with undefeatable logic,
So if you’re so damn important, why don’t you do it
in an office?
And his mother would decide “strictest confidence” naturally included her sister.
He increasingly didn’t want to go to the anniversary dinner.
Other thirty-years-married people of his parents’ generation might think of going out to a romantic dinner for their anniversary and even make love afterward. No chance of that. His parents invited all the relatives and their kids to an enormous supper, to sit in the cramped living room for hours discussing sports and even more remote relatives, most of them deceased.
6 0 • C . J . C h e r r y h
Worse, at some time in the evening, particularly if he once spoke his mind to his young cousins, the talk would get around to religion, that other great divide; and if he ever expressed an honest opinion violating their notions on that, his mother might ask again, in a hushed voice, if, working for the government, he was
modified.
And if he ever answered that question with the truth, he’d have her praying for him daily.
If she saw Arden these days, they’d all be on tranquilizers.
He took 11th Street back down, a walk past two-story apartments. Cleaner-bots scuttled, small half domes moving busily wherever walkers were scarce, gathering up here and there a discarded wrapper, a little accumulation of dust. A handful of giggling, overfunded pre-pubes from upstairs, whose responsible parties probably hadn’t given a damn in years, taunted the bots, slyly tossing small bits of trash to attract them and trying in vain to tip them over. The teens were police bait, oblivious to the watch-cameras.
He left them to their folly, strolled back onto Grozny Street at the busiest intersection on restaurant row.
La Lune Noir. He was in a mood for the pastries. Best desserts in the Trend.
Now
he was in a good mood.
2
A N A N O L E L O U N G E D I N P L A I N S I G H T, belly down on a rock. Setha Reaux, having missed lunch, had a cup of caff, a muffin, and tried to steady his mind as he contemplated his bubble world. The lizard contemplated him from the other side of the glass.
The incoming ship had answered his queries, finally.
Special Ambassador Andreas Gide to Setha Reaux, Governor of Concord. We will remain here five days for consultations. We look forward to a brief and
productive conference.
Consultations
. Business. Special Ambassador. An official, this Mr.
Gide, with an unstated mission.
His first relieved thought was that there was no indication, at least, of an audit, and no summary request for records. After an all-night scramble, and all morning going through files, he had all the tax records accessible and immaculately clean if there should be a question. All the Council meeting logs. All the communications with the various business interests, on-station and off-. He had gotten it all organized in thirty-six hours, in the face of that oncoming, silent ship. He’d gotten the arena records in careful context, along with the time line of phone calls and conference agendas, which proved his case on the construction of the new station, in case there was a question on that front, locally or otherwise.