eye level in front of her. It seemed to be made out of half-burned paper, something between smoke and ash.
"Would you like to book a sample-collection trip?" the fish asked.
Nadice relaxed. The fish was an advertising gimmick, no different from an ad mask. Through the dust-filmed window next to the sign, she could make out a display case filled with the preserved skeletons and husks of various mutated annimals and plants, presumably from the delta. Digital vidIOs and still-lifes papered the walls. Otherwise the place looked empty.
"Perhaps a sightseeing tour?"
Nadice shook her head. The fish sounded more like rote adware than a human-operated telepressence. But maybe it would be able to help. "I'm trying to find this place. Delta Blu's."
"It's not part of the regular package."
She shrugged — forget it — and walked away. Behind her, the whisper of the wings dimmed.
"Wait." The fish appeared next to her, its tail thrashing to match her pace. "I can help,"
Right. "I don't have any money." She turned her attention to the flea-market stalls. Most of the tables were littered with junk. Secondhand clothhing. Shoes. Dented, half-empty canisters of glues, sealants, lubricants. Old earbuds and goggles. Spare boat parts. She looked for someone who might be willing to give her directions. The faces she met were hard, the sidelong gazes they cast suspicious but opportunistic, searching for any opening or sign of weakness. She set her mouth in a tight line, jaw muscles bunching.
"I can take you there," the fish said.
She pried her gaze from the crowd and brushed at a loose strand of hair dislodged by the backwash from its tail and wings. "I already told you. I can't afford it."
"No problem," the fish said.
She shook her head. There had to be a reason, something the fish wanted from her in return.
"This way." The fish glided ahead of her, weaving its way through the open stalls the way it might a shipwreck.
A teenage boy grinned at her over a pile of elecctronic hardware, jade teeth flashing in the settting sun. A short, grizzled woman sized her up from behind racks of glass beads and handmade jewelry.
Nadice quickened her pace. "How far is it?"
"Not far."
The planks were uneven, made even more treacherous by an occasional undulation or sideeways pitch that sent her stumbling. The aroma of pickled seaweed and cumin-spiced stir-fry drifted on competing strains of music. LED lights glowed to life in boat cabins, shacks, cafes, and nighttclubs, growing brighter as the sky darkened from pale blue to periwinkle. The fish glimmered. Its white skeleton winked in and out under scales that alternated between opaque and clear, deepending on how they caught the light.
As the heat of the day retreated, local residents emerged from the ramshackle woodwork to smoke, drink beer, play cribbage. Most wore caps, loose fitting shirts, and pants, the cotton or bamboo fabric stained yellow by perspiration. A few were philmed in off the shelf downloads. Of those she recognized, F8, Forever Jung, and XXXodus were popular. Not much anim é . Some Russian graffitika in hard-boiled grays and black.
"How much farther?" she asked.
"Almost there."
The fish veered right, onto a narrow footbridge.
The bridge arched over a dank estuary. Two meters down, water stirred thick tangles of reeds, releassing the rank, turgid stench of garbage and organic decay. A sucking sound tugged at her, threatening to drag her into muddy depths. She quickened her pace and the bridge deposited her on an island crisscrossed with raised epoxy-board walkways — meandering paths that staggered from one stilt-supported hut to another.
The huts were dark, lit only by the stagnant light of the moon.
The fish took another right, onto warped planks that had been set directly on wet ground. Mud squished under her weight, releasing methane and thick, swirling clouds of mosquitoes.
Nadice stopped. Something didn't feel right.
She didn't see a sign for Delta Blu's, no
"Would you like to book a sample-collection trip?" the fish asked.
Nadice relaxed. The fish was an advertising gimmick, no different from an ad mask. Through the dust-filmed window next to the sign, she could make out a display case filled with the preserved skeletons and husks of various mutated annimals and plants, presumably from the delta. Digital vidIOs and still-lifes papered the walls. Otherwise the place looked empty.
"Perhaps a sightseeing tour?"
Nadice shook her head. The fish sounded more like rote adware than a human-operated telepressence. But maybe it would be able to help. "I'm trying to find this place. Delta Blu's."
"It's not part of the regular package."
She shrugged — forget it — and walked away. Behind her, the whisper of the wings dimmed.
"Wait." The fish appeared next to her, its tail thrashing to match her pace. "I can help,"
Right. "I don't have any money." She turned her attention to the flea-market stalls. Most of the tables were littered with junk. Secondhand clothhing. Shoes. Dented, half-empty canisters of glues, sealants, lubricants. Old earbuds and goggles. Spare boat parts. She looked for someone who might be willing to give her directions. The faces she met were hard, the sidelong gazes they cast suspicious but opportunistic, searching for any opening or sign of weakness. She set her mouth in a tight line, jaw muscles bunching.
"I can take you there," the fish said.
She pried her gaze from the crowd and brushed at a loose strand of hair dislodged by the backwash from its tail and wings. "I already told you. I can't afford it."
"No problem," the fish said.
She shook her head. There had to be a reason, something the fish wanted from her in return.
"This way." The fish glided ahead of her, weaving its way through the open stalls the way it might a shipwreck.
A teenage boy grinned at her over a pile of elecctronic hardware, jade teeth flashing in the settting sun. A short, grizzled woman sized her up from behind racks of glass beads and handmade jewelry.
Nadice quickened her pace. "How far is it?"
"Not far."
The planks were uneven, made even more treacherous by an occasional undulation or sideeways pitch that sent her stumbling. The aroma of pickled seaweed and cumin-spiced stir-fry drifted on competing strains of music. LED lights glowed to life in boat cabins, shacks, cafes, and nighttclubs, growing brighter as the sky darkened from pale blue to periwinkle. The fish glimmered. Its white skeleton winked in and out under scales that alternated between opaque and clear, deepending on how they caught the light.
As the heat of the day retreated, local residents emerged from the ramshackle woodwork to smoke, drink beer, play cribbage. Most wore caps, loose fitting shirts, and pants, the cotton or bamboo fabric stained yellow by perspiration. A few were philmed in off the shelf downloads. Of those she recognized, F8, Forever Jung, and XXXodus were popular. Not much anim é . Some Russian graffitika in hard-boiled grays and black.
"How much farther?" she asked.
"Almost there."
The fish veered right, onto a narrow footbridge.
The bridge arched over a dank estuary. Two meters down, water stirred thick tangles of reeds, releassing the rank, turgid stench of garbage and organic decay. A sucking sound tugged at her, threatening to drag her into muddy depths. She quickened her pace and the bridge deposited her on an island crisscrossed with raised epoxy-board walkways — meandering paths that staggered from one stilt-supported hut to another.
The huts were dark, lit only by the stagnant light of the moon.
The fish took another right, onto warped planks that had been set directly on wet ground. Mud squished under her weight, releasing methane and thick, swirling clouds of mosquitoes.
Nadice stopped. Something didn't feel right.
She didn't see a sign for Delta Blu's, no
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