Read Online 21st Century Science Fiction by D B Hartwell - Free Book Online
Authors: D B Hartwell
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held it under the tap.
“Hear you’ve got farm trouble,” she said noncommitally as she worked the hand pump on the beer engine.
“Uh-huh.” Joe focused on the glass. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Never you mind.” She put the glass down to give the head time to settle. “You want to talk to Arthur and Wendy-the-Rat about farms. They had one the other year.”
“Happens.” Joe took his pint. “Thanks, Brenda. The usual?”
“Yeah.” She turned back to the washer. Joe headed over to the far corner where a pair of huge leather sofas, their arms and backs ripped and scarred by generations of Brenda’s semiferal cats, sat facing each other on either side of a cold hearth. “Art, Rats. What’s up?”
“Fine, thanks.” Wendy-the-Rat was well over seventy, one of those older folks who had taken the p53 chromosome hack and seemed to wither into timelessness: white dread-locks, nose and ear studs dangling loosely from leathery holes, skin like a desert wind. Art had been her boy-toy once, back before middle age set its teeth into him. He hadn’t had the hack, and looked older than she did. Together they ran a smallholding, mostly pharming vaccine chicks but also doing a brisk trade in high-nitrate fertilizer that came in on the nod and went out in sacks by moonlight.
“Heard you had a spot of bother?”
“ ’S true.” Joe took a cautious mouthful. “Mm, good. You ever had farm trouble?”
“Maybe.” Wendy looked at him askance, slitty-eyed. “What kinda trouble you got in mind?”
“Got a farm collective. Says it’s going to Jupiter or something. Bastard’s homesteading the woods down by Old Jack’s stream. Listen . . . Jupiter?”
“Aye, well, that’s one of the destinations, sure enough.” Art nodded wisely, as if he knew anything.
“Naah, that’s bad.” Wendy-the-Rat frowned. “Is it growing trees, do you know?”
“Trees?” Joe shook his head. “Haven’t gone and looked, tell the truth. What the fuck makes people do that to themselves, anyway?”
“Who the fuck cares?” Wendy’s face split in a broad grin. “Such as don’t think they’re human anymore, meself.”
“It tried to sweet-talk us,” Joe said.
“Aye, they do that,” said Arthur, nodding emphatically. “Read somewhere they’re the ones as think we aren’t fully human. Tools an’ clothes and farmyard machines, like? Sustaining a pre-post-industrial lifestyle instead of updating our genome and living off the land like God intended?”
“ ’Ow the hell can something with nine legs and eye stalks call itself human?” Joe demanded, chugging back half his pint in one angry swallow.
“It used to be, once. Maybe used to be a bunch of people.” Wendy got a weird and witchy look in her eye. “ ’Ad a boyfriend back thirty, forty years ago, joined a Lamarckian clade. Swapping genes an’ all, the way you or me’d swap us underwear. Used to be a ’viromentalist back when antiglobalization was about big corporations pissing on us all for profits. Got into gene hackery and self-sufficiency big time. I slung his fucking ass when he turned green and started photosynthesizing.”
“Bastards,” Joe muttered. It was deep green folk like that who’d killed off the agricultural-industrial complex in the early years of the century, turning large portions of the countryside into ecologically devastated wilderness gone to rack and ruin. Bad enough that they’d set millions of countryfolk out of work—but that they’d gone on to turn green, grow extra limbs and emigrate to Jupiter orbit was adding insult to injury. And having a good time in the process, by all accounts. “Din’t you ’ave a farm problem, coupla years back?”
“Aye, did that,” said Art. He clutched his pint mug protectively.
“It went away,” Joe mused aloud.
“Yeah, well.” Wendy stared at him cautiously.
“No fireworks, like.” Joe caught her eye. “And no body. Huh.”
“Metabolism,” said Wendy, apparently coming to
“Hear you’ve got farm trouble,” she said noncommitally as she worked the hand pump on the beer engine.
“Uh-huh.” Joe focused on the glass. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Never you mind.” She put the glass down to give the head time to settle. “You want to talk to Arthur and Wendy-the-Rat about farms. They had one the other year.”
“Happens.” Joe took his pint. “Thanks, Brenda. The usual?”
“Yeah.” She turned back to the washer. Joe headed over to the far corner where a pair of huge leather sofas, their arms and backs ripped and scarred by generations of Brenda’s semiferal cats, sat facing each other on either side of a cold hearth. “Art, Rats. What’s up?”
“Fine, thanks.” Wendy-the-Rat was well over seventy, one of those older folks who had taken the p53 chromosome hack and seemed to wither into timelessness: white dread-locks, nose and ear studs dangling loosely from leathery holes, skin like a desert wind. Art had been her boy-toy once, back before middle age set its teeth into him. He hadn’t had the hack, and looked older than she did. Together they ran a smallholding, mostly pharming vaccine chicks but also doing a brisk trade in high-nitrate fertilizer that came in on the nod and went out in sacks by moonlight.
“Heard you had a spot of bother?”
“ ’S true.” Joe took a cautious mouthful. “Mm, good. You ever had farm trouble?”
“Maybe.” Wendy looked at him askance, slitty-eyed. “What kinda trouble you got in mind?”
“Got a farm collective. Says it’s going to Jupiter or something. Bastard’s homesteading the woods down by Old Jack’s stream. Listen . . . Jupiter?”
“Aye, well, that’s one of the destinations, sure enough.” Art nodded wisely, as if he knew anything.
“Naah, that’s bad.” Wendy-the-Rat frowned. “Is it growing trees, do you know?”
“Trees?” Joe shook his head. “Haven’t gone and looked, tell the truth. What the fuck makes people do that to themselves, anyway?”
“Who the fuck cares?” Wendy’s face split in a broad grin. “Such as don’t think they’re human anymore, meself.”
“It tried to sweet-talk us,” Joe said.
“Aye, they do that,” said Arthur, nodding emphatically. “Read somewhere they’re the ones as think we aren’t fully human. Tools an’ clothes and farmyard machines, like? Sustaining a pre-post-industrial lifestyle instead of updating our genome and living off the land like God intended?”
“ ’Ow the hell can something with nine legs and eye stalks call itself human?” Joe demanded, chugging back half his pint in one angry swallow.
“It used to be, once. Maybe used to be a bunch of people.” Wendy got a weird and witchy look in her eye. “ ’Ad a boyfriend back thirty, forty years ago, joined a Lamarckian clade. Swapping genes an’ all, the way you or me’d swap us underwear. Used to be a ’viromentalist back when antiglobalization was about big corporations pissing on us all for profits. Got into gene hackery and self-sufficiency big time. I slung his fucking ass when he turned green and started photosynthesizing.”
“Bastards,” Joe muttered. It was deep green folk like that who’d killed off the agricultural-industrial complex in the early years of the century, turning large portions of the countryside into ecologically devastated wilderness gone to rack and ruin. Bad enough that they’d set millions of countryfolk out of work—but that they’d gone on to turn green, grow extra limbs and emigrate to Jupiter orbit was adding insult to injury. And having a good time in the process, by all accounts. “Din’t you ’ave a farm problem, coupla years back?”
“Aye, did that,” said Art. He clutched his pint mug protectively.
“It went away,” Joe mused aloud.
“Yeah, well.” Wendy stared at him cautiously.
“No fireworks, like.” Joe caught her eye. “And no body. Huh.”
“Metabolism,” said Wendy, apparently coming to
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