The figure that emerged from the tank was humanoid. Though it was naked, Hart could discern no sexual characteristics, primary or secondary. Now that it was no longer a shadow, she could see that its skin was as milky white as the fluid had been when they arrived. The flesh was soft and unlined, barely disturbed by the swell of muscles. It seemed somehow undefined.
Around the bowl, computer screens sprang to renewed life, displaying columns and rows of figures as well as formulae and diagnostic illustrations. Hart had no interest in numbers or pictures. The limp shape, at once compelling and repulsive, absorbed her whole attention. The strength of her fascination blew her usual cool professionalism away on the faint breeze from the air purifiers.
“Quite extraordinary, isn’t it?”
Hart was startled. She had not registered Wilson’s departure from the floor of the chamber, let alone his return to the platform.
“I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“No one has. That is part of what makes it so valuable.”
“Direct your attention to the reaction data, Hart.”
She was annoyed at the beast’s use of her name in front of the mage, but she did as she was told. Scanning the screen displaying physical data, she whistled. The specs would look good on an Olympic athlete, but no Olympian had ever excelled in so many areas. “Superlative,” she concluded.
The Dragon chuffed his satisfaction.
“Very good.”
The mage bowed in acknowledgment. his face was a carefully constructed combination of the praised servant and the acknowledged savant, but Hart could see behind the subservient mask to the relief that was the man’s real emotion.
The Dragon stood, arcing its neck in a stretch that radiated satisfaction. When they had left the birthing chamber behind and the barriers both astral and mundane had been restored, the Dragon spoke. “I believe it is time for Mr. Drake to begin Operation Turncoat.”
Hart could feel the beast’s anticipation.
5
“We came from the dust of this planet and to the planet we return our bodies, recycling without end. Yet, while our mundane dross returns to oneness with the Earth, our spirits soar onward to answer for our stewardship. Let us consider now the works of men, especially those of our brother Jiro.”
The priest stopped speaking and, after some scattered “amens”, silence filled the small chapel. The room was not crowded. Besides Sam, Hanae, and the priest, only ten others were present. Jiro had not made many friends in his year at the arcology. Most of those attending were business acquaintances. Of his family, only an uncle had come.
The only flowers were a single twig of cherry, its forced-growth blossoms wilting quickly. Their scent was overwhelmed by the musty odor of the earthen floor.
Sam contemplated the pasteboard coffin. It was cheap, degradable paper in keeping with the Conservationist creed. Paper was still relatively inexpensive in the Northwest. He’d read that believers in other regions used cloth bags or didn’t bother with a covering at all.
The priest rustled his cotton robes to attract the congregation’s attention. “Brothers and sisters, we are still here, alive in the living world. Our brother Jiro has moved on in the never-ending cycle. We pray that he has achieved unity with the great spirit of life. Now we commit his shell, not to interment within the earth, but to a proper and glorious dispersal. What our brother was shall enrich us all.”
As the priest spoke, the coffin slid back toward the chapel’s inner wall, disappearing into the darkness. After it had moved, Sam could see the faint lines of the dirt that had slid into the trackway for the electric-motored platform that was carrying the coffin away. Somewhere in the darkness, attendants would remove the box and place it on a conveyor down to the recycling operation. Any usable parts would already have been sent to the storage banks. The remains would be rendered down to constituent components. Conservationists took recycling seriously.
“The family has asked me to announce a luncheon at Hsien’s Natural Foods on Level 144. Those wishing to make a memorial contribution will find cards with a list of preferred organizations in the rack at the door of the chapel. You may, of course, contribute directly to the Church of the Whole Earth, Incorporated. All donations are tax-deductible. Thank you for coming.”
The priest bowed, then disappeared into the darkness at the rear of the chapel. When Sam and Hanae turned to leave after a moment of deference, Sam was startled to see Alice Crenshaw standing near the door. He would never have expected the hard-nosed security woman to show up. She always made such a show of being hard-shelled.
Deciding that he wanted to talk to Crenshaw, San, nudged Hanae in the direction of the security officer. Before they had taken two steps, however, a small, weedy man with a porcelain datajack in his right temple blocked their path. The jack and his lapel pin identified him as a Renraku decker.
“Geez, ain’t it weird,” the man began without preamble. “You keep finding out stuff about people even after they’re dead. I didn’t know Jiro was a Conservationist. Did you?”
“No,” Sam replied, annoyed at the man’s boldness.
“Hey man, you must of,” he insisted. “You were his best buddy. Warner, ain’t it?”
“Verner. I couldn’t say I was his best buddy. We were friendly. Jiro didn’t let anyone too close after his wife’s death.”
“Yeah. Thought you might have known him better than us guys down in Data.” The man’s eyes darted around the chamber. “You’re right about him not having many friends. I would have expected more guys from the office to come, even though he was a loner. Zaibatsu spirit and all that. But I guess if you want to get that spirit up, it takes more than a salary, man. You know?”
“The company makes no demands with regard to religions observances here in America,” Sam observed, keeping his voice carefully neutral. He thought that was the best way to make the man cease his inquisitiveness and let Sam get on with his business.
“Here in… oh man, that’s right, you came in from Japan about the same time, didn’t you?” The man didn’t wait for an answer. “Guess it’s real different over there. No Injuns lording it over proper educated folks. I bear they don’t even take guff from the Metas. Keep them on reserves or something.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Sam said through his teeth. His detachment had fled. “I didn’t get out much.”
“You ever hear about that island, Yomi, I think it is, where they ship all the Orks and Trolls?”
Sam controlled his anger. This man was obviously insensitive. Arguing with him would be worthless, and besides, Sam didn’t want to make a scene in the chapel. “I was a shaikujin. Like a good salaryman, I never went far from Renraku property except on corporate business. The company has little to do with the so-called Awakened, so I didn’t see much of them.”