Phoenix Café by Gwyneth Jones Read Free Book Online Page B

the prince’s aspergation. Misha lifted and shook his glistening hands over their heads. On they swept, into the vast, exhausted human city, each carrying their own share of the pale, clinging fire.

 
    2 
Political Meeting
    i
    Catherine resumed her old place in the household. She joined Maitri’s elderly and diminishing band of retainers at services in the character shrine, in the slow formal dancing that closed every day; and through the sociable Aleutian nights. When the members of the company napped and chatted and entertained each other, she reminisced with them about the glory days gone by. She discussed sacred records with the chaplain, played “Go” and “chess” with the Silent, and “Scrabble” with the Signifiers. She sent word to her comrades in the Church that her health had broken down and she would be taking an indefinite break from her missionary work. She made arrangements to dispose of her trou, along with the few possessions she’d left there. Maitri, delighted, secured her an invitation to visit the daughter of an old friend, a young lady like herself.
    The Khans sent a closed car, which picked her up at the front door of Maitri’s house and deposited her, some time later, inside a walled garden. There was a sharp twittering of birdsong. Far distant walls (the garden’s dimensions were doubled, at least, by the artful use of virtual display-screens) were bright with vividly colored Aleutian creepers. Fruit trees stood in rows, bearing flowers and fruits together, apples and pears, apricots and peaches: all the foliage, dark or pale, suffused with the tell-tale un-green of hybrid Aleutian genes. Butterfly wings flickered, insects hummed.
    Airborne traffic within the Cities was limited by environmental law; and unfashionable. Youroans traveled continental distances, without a thought, in “closed cars,” that gave you no sensation of movement. It worried Catherine, like a vague nausea, that she did not know where the hell she was. She could have crossed Youro, or spent the hours sitting in a traffic jam.
    “You must be Catherine.” Mrs. Benazir Khan, Maitri’s old friend, dismissed the car: it vanished, magically, into an antique false vista of box hedges and fountains. She was a tall human, a gauze scarf draped over her sleek dark hair, her figure markedly but sedately female in sober Aleutian overalls. She held Catherine’s hands slightly longer than the customary greeting required, as if judging for herself and finally whether this was a suitable companion for her child. “I’m glad you’ve given up the Mission work,” she said at last. She shook her head. “Maitri has been so worried. The Church of Self is not the answer, Catherine. You must let us find our own solutions to our problems.”
    Catherine felt humbled.
    “Let me introduce you to my daughter.”
    Thérèse Khan was a tiny creature, dressed like a proper young lady in a cinched bodice and full skirt under a robe of layered gossamer. She curled in the middle of a pink flowerbed under an apple tree, teasing a small white puppy.
    “Play nicely now,” smiled Mrs. Khan, and left them.
    Thérèse’s hands and face were decorated in living color. Her eyes looked out as if from a mask made of butterfly’s wings. Catherine thought of tiger weed tattoos. She didn’t know what to say. The puppy yapped.
    “Would you like to hold him? Put out your hands.”
    The puppy squirmed in Catherine’s cupped palms and licked her fingers.
    “Isn’t he sweet? He’s called Pipi because he does it all the time. He’s supposed to be house-trained but he isn’t.”
    “How old is he? Maybe he’s too young to learn.”
    Thérèse laughed, not unkindly, at Catherine’s ignorance. “He’s as ‘old’ as he’s going to get. He’s a neotoneyatey…. I can’t remember the word: he’ll be a puppy forever.” She put her hands playfully over the dog’s minute pricked ears. “I’ll tell you a secret. I’ll always love Pipi, but I