North Wind by Gwyneth Jones Read Free Book Online

rent. How am I supposed to keep up with the chores? He crouched among dirty cooking things, oddly conscious of the heat and weight of the tropic air, which his image could not feel. The kids weren’t in sight. Instead Jimi swung into view: shy and liquid fawn’s eyes, guitar slung around her neck (his neck! sorry Jim!); a pan of something in one hand.
    “Sid! Is that you Sid?”
    “Of course it’s me! Who does it look like?”
    Correct me if I’m wrong, he thought, but wasn’t Hendrix supposed to be a fairly intelligent young man? Sentimental, yeah, but definitely not an idiot. Not this time around. If we have to believe in Reincarnation, he wondered bitterly, couldn’t we make it a tad more plausible? But the halfcaste community in Triv didn’t worry about plausible. It never struck them as odd, how many world-famous global-village megastars had been reborn among them.
    “Thank The Self you’re here. We’re having a hassle with Lydie. She won’t go in the safe room.”
    “The safe room,” he repeated, stunned. They relied on toleration but they prepared for the worst. Every halfcaste home held an armored refuge, ready in case of trouble.
    “What’s happened?”
    Another figure in fancy dress hove into view: a scrawny woman with lumpen peasant features and an air of iron determination. She came right up, invading his bi-location body-space, peering from under the blue-bordered veil: spoke in her Common Tongue that somehow conveyed a sing-song, chi-chi accent; with grace-notes of Albania.
    
    Sid felt sick. “Bring her here!”
    They brought Lydia, his six year old daughter. She was crying, snailtracks of tears on her dark skin: furious with herself because she wanted to be brave and couldn’t hack it. She poured out accusations against Mother Teresa and Jimi. Jimi chimed in, defending himself. Mother Teresa began a saintly reproof. There was nothing Sid could do. He couldn’t hug Lydie. Or give Mother T a punch in the nose… (Sid had difficulty with mother figures). He fought to find a controlling, sarcastic voice, in which he established that Lydie’s baby brother, little Roger, had settled in the cramped windowless cell without a murmur. He sneered at Lydia’s rank cowardice. It was horrible to hurt her, but it worked. Lydie went off with Mother Teresa. Sid was left with Jimi, finally able to react to the news.
    “You have anti-Aleutian trouble in Triv? Right, you weather it, you know how. Don’t do anything provocative, stay indoors, and don’t worry about me. Don’t let Lydie start worrying. Tell her the Trading Post is going to be evacuated; we have air-transport on the way. It’s true. Uji’s sending a shuttle.”
    The reincarnated guitarist blinked at him. “They’re sending you a shuttle? If you say so.”
    “What d’you mean, if I say so?”
    “Uh, nothing Sid, only the word among the purebreds is that the Aleutians evacuated Uji days ago, and then the locals went in and ransacked the place, burned it out. But it’s only human news. Deadworld images and all that. It’s probably a crock of shit.”
    Sid didn’t say anything. His mouth was too dry.
    “It’s bad for us,” Jimi carefully worked out the obvious. “The purebred news says they’ve gone, running scared. They don’t seem like superbeings at the moment, and that’s not good for Aleutian-lovers.” He tailed off. “I wish you were here, Sid.”
    “Me too, but I have to go,” croaked Sidney. “I’ve been on this line too long. Do your best, Jim. I’ll be home as soon as I can get there.”
    He disassembled the phone and hid it. He sat scratching at a patch of grey scale on his wrist. If you lived with Aleutians, you learned to tolerate the temporary infestations. It would go away.
    He wiped his trembling hands over his eyes. Maitri’s wrong, he thought. There is no shuttle. How long have we