Schismatrix plus by Bruce Sterling Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bruce Sterling
a dozen tall fermenting units, bubbling loudly. A dead woman whose face looked sunburned sprawled on the floor by the doorway.
"Good," the President said. "We eat." The Speaker of the House unmasked herself; her face was bony, with slitted, suspicious eyes. A painful-looking skin rash dotted her jaw and neck.
The two pirates stalked into the next room. It was a combination bunkroom and command center, with a bank of harsh, flickering videos in a central cluster. One of the screens was tracking by telephoto: it showed a group of nine red-clad pirates approaching on foot down the Zaibatsu's northern slope, picking their way through the ruins.
"Here come the rest of us," the Speaker said.
The President glanced about him. "Not so bad. We stay here, then. At least we'll have a place to keep the air in."
Something rustled under one of the bunks. The Speaker of the House flung herself headlong under the bed. Lindsay swung his camera around. There was a high-pitched scream and a brief struggle; then she emerged, dragging out a small child. The Speaker had pinned the child in a complicated one-handed armlock. She got it to its feet.
It was a dark-haired, glowering, filthy little creature of indeterminate sex. It wore an Eighth Orbital Army uniform, cut to size. It was missing some teeth. It looked about five years old.
"So they're not all dead!" the President said. He crouched and looked the child in the eye. "Where are the rest of you?" He showed it a knife. The blade flickered into his hand from nowhere.
"Talk, citizen! Otherwise I show you your guts!"
"Come on!" said Lindsay. "That's no way to talk to a child."
"Who are you kidding, citizen? Listen, this little squealer might be eighty years old. There are endocrine treatments—"
Lindsay knelt by the child and tried to approach it gently. "How old are you? Four, five? What language do you speak?"
"Forget it," the Speaker of the House said. "There's only one small-sized bunk, see it? I guess the spyplanes just missed this one."
"Or spared it," Lindsay said.
The President laughed skeptically. "Sure, citizen. Listen, we can sell this thing to the whore bankers. It ought to be worth a few hours' attention for us, at least."
"That's slavery," Lindsay protested.
"Slavery? What are you talking about? Don't get theological, citizen. I'm talking about a national entity freeing a prisoner of war to a third party. It's a perfectly legal commercial transaction."
"I don't want to go to the whores," the child piped up suddenly. "I want to go to the farmers."
"The farmers?" said the President. "You don't want to be a farmer, micro-citizen. Ever had any weapons training? We could use a small assassin to sneak through the air ducts—"
"Don't underestimate those farmers," Lindsay said. He gestured at one of the video screens. A group of two dozen farmers had walked across the interior slope of the Zaibatsu. They were loading the dead Eighth Orbitals onto four flat sledges, drawn by shoulder harnesses.
"Blast!" the President said. "I wanted to roll them myself." He smirked.
"Can't blame 'em, I guess. Lots of good protein in a corpse."
"I want to go with the farmers," the child insisted.
"Let it go," Lindsay spoke up. "I have business with the Geisha Bank. I can treat your nation to a stay."
The Speaker of the House released the child's arm. "You can?" Lindsay nodded. "Give me a couple of days to negotiate it." She caught her husband's eye. "This one's all right. Let's make him Secretary of State." THE MARE TRANQULLITATIS PEOPLE'S CIRCUMLUNAR ZAIBATSU: 2-1-'16
The Geisha Bank was a complex of older buildings, shellacked airtight and connected by a maze of polished wooden halls and sliding paper airlocks. The area had been a red-light district even before the Zaibatsu's collapse. The Bank was proud of its heritage and continued the refined and eccentric traditions of a gentler age.
Lindsay left the eleven nationals of the Fortuna Miners' Democracy in an antiseptic sauna
"Good," the President said. "We eat." The Speaker of the House unmasked herself; her face was bony, with slitted, suspicious eyes. A painful-looking skin rash dotted her jaw and neck.
The two pirates stalked into the next room. It was a combination bunkroom and command center, with a bank of harsh, flickering videos in a central cluster. One of the screens was tracking by telephoto: it showed a group of nine red-clad pirates approaching on foot down the Zaibatsu's northern slope, picking their way through the ruins.
"Here come the rest of us," the Speaker said.
The President glanced about him. "Not so bad. We stay here, then. At least we'll have a place to keep the air in."
Something rustled under one of the bunks. The Speaker of the House flung herself headlong under the bed. Lindsay swung his camera around. There was a high-pitched scream and a brief struggle; then she emerged, dragging out a small child. The Speaker had pinned the child in a complicated one-handed armlock. She got it to its feet.
It was a dark-haired, glowering, filthy little creature of indeterminate sex. It wore an Eighth Orbital Army uniform, cut to size. It was missing some teeth. It looked about five years old.
"So they're not all dead!" the President said. He crouched and looked the child in the eye. "Where are the rest of you?" He showed it a knife. The blade flickered into his hand from nowhere.
"Talk, citizen! Otherwise I show you your guts!"
"Come on!" said Lindsay. "That's no way to talk to a child."
"Who are you kidding, citizen? Listen, this little squealer might be eighty years old. There are endocrine treatments—"
Lindsay knelt by the child and tried to approach it gently. "How old are you? Four, five? What language do you speak?"
"Forget it," the Speaker of the House said. "There's only one small-sized bunk, see it? I guess the spyplanes just missed this one."
"Or spared it," Lindsay said.
The President laughed skeptically. "Sure, citizen. Listen, we can sell this thing to the whore bankers. It ought to be worth a few hours' attention for us, at least."
"That's slavery," Lindsay protested.
"Slavery? What are you talking about? Don't get theological, citizen. I'm talking about a national entity freeing a prisoner of war to a third party. It's a perfectly legal commercial transaction."
"I don't want to go to the whores," the child piped up suddenly. "I want to go to the farmers."
"The farmers?" said the President. "You don't want to be a farmer, micro-citizen. Ever had any weapons training? We could use a small assassin to sneak through the air ducts—"
"Don't underestimate those farmers," Lindsay said. He gestured at one of the video screens. A group of two dozen farmers had walked across the interior slope of the Zaibatsu. They were loading the dead Eighth Orbitals onto four flat sledges, drawn by shoulder harnesses.
"Blast!" the President said. "I wanted to roll them myself." He smirked.
"Can't blame 'em, I guess. Lots of good protein in a corpse."
"I want to go with the farmers," the child insisted.
"Let it go," Lindsay spoke up. "I have business with the Geisha Bank. I can treat your nation to a stay."
The Speaker of the House released the child's arm. "You can?" Lindsay nodded. "Give me a couple of days to negotiate it." She caught her husband's eye. "This one's all right. Let's make him Secretary of State." THE MARE TRANQULLITATIS PEOPLE'S CIRCUMLUNAR ZAIBATSU: 2-1-'16
The Geisha Bank was a complex of older buildings, shellacked airtight and connected by a maze of polished wooden halls and sliding paper airlocks. The area had been a red-light district even before the Zaibatsu's collapse. The Bank was proud of its heritage and continued the refined and eccentric traditions of a gentler age.
Lindsay left the eleven nationals of the Fortuna Miners' Democracy in an antiseptic sauna
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