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Authors: Robert Appleton
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their empty heads might depressurize the whole freaking shuttle.”
“You done?”
Varinia pressed her fists to her hips, widened her stance. “Not until I get what’s owed me.”
“Then you’re done.” Arch inhaled a pinch of snuff from a cigar box on the edge of his desk. By the time Varinia noticed one of his cufflinks was flashing red, the door flung open and two imposing bouncers burst in to lash her arms behind her back.
She kicked at Archie and head butted behind her, but hit only air. “You bunch of bastards. Suck-baits. Get off—”
Archie slapped her cheek. Twice. The shock silenced her, but the hot smarting sensation seared her rage.
“Now this is how it’ll happen,” he said. “I don’t give a shit who you really are. Not now. But I am locking you in a cube for two days. Give you a chance to think things over. Then you’re taking the first shuttle back to a hundred zee. You’ll sign my contract for three years, with all the perks I promised you. Until that expires, you won’t leave the maze except when I give permission, and you’ll have an escort. No messing. Try anything else and you will die. I promise you. Oh and by the way, ever insult my wives again and you’ll wind up spreading rug twenty-four-seven…in a very dark room.”
She had to escape…before the horror flooded in…she had to rise, to steal out of body to where physical pain couldn’t touch her and where she was master of all. The only place she’d ever truly known herself. The last safe—
Crack!
Archie slapped her awake, held her face in his hands, then sprouted a sickly grin. “Not yet, princess. I want to introduce you to one of our investors. He’s traveled a long way, and he’s been dying to play the one and only Varinia Wilcox. So be a good sport tomorrow, will you? Lose convincingly.” He chuckled, then squeezed her cheeks until her lips bunched open. “After all, you should be used to that by now.”
Genetically modified to ripen quickly and survive in low-oxygen environs, the pale green apples were crisp and sweet. As Solomon munched on his second, he checked the solar-powered clock hanging from the greenhouse roof. Twelve-thirty had been and gone. No sign of Varinia. He shifted his weight on the creaking wicker chair in the shade of an oversized apple tree. “You don’t get many pickers these days, I’m guessing?” he asked the twin gardeners, plump Chinese girls in their early twenties.
“We prefer it that way,” the shorter, cuter one piped up. “Our papa used to say the only thing a plant needs to survive is the one thing man is incapable of providing.”
“And what’s that?”
“His absence.”
“Hmm. Doesn’t really hold true out here, though, does it? I mean, without us, there wouldn’t be a garden.”
“Right.” The second twin lugged a bushel of apples over to her roly-poly helper. “The garden shouldn’t be here. And neither should we.”
“That’s an odd thing for a gardener to say.”
“Is it? All I meant is that none of this is natural. We’re in a greenhouse inside a greenhouse. The asteroid is spinning so fast these plants don’t know which way is up. And the nearest genuine atmosphere suitable for them is light-years away. They’ve no business being here.”
“In that case…” Solomon gave a sigh, “…they can join the club.”
“Exactly, friend.” The shorter twin handed him a rare red apple, winked, then left with the roly-poly, ushering it deeper into the warm and misty greenhouse.
An artificial swamp for Venusian orchids attracted one or two visitors. On the far side, a diminutive woman wearing overalls and thick gloves, probably the girls’ mother, watered a row of Jaguar altos with her hose. He identified them from their silver stems and the quiet but high-pitched note they sang when their thirst was quenched—on their home world, it was during the monsoon. But the twins were right, this doomed colony was no place for sensitive living
“You done?”
Varinia pressed her fists to her hips, widened her stance. “Not until I get what’s owed me.”
“Then you’re done.” Arch inhaled a pinch of snuff from a cigar box on the edge of his desk. By the time Varinia noticed one of his cufflinks was flashing red, the door flung open and two imposing bouncers burst in to lash her arms behind her back.
She kicked at Archie and head butted behind her, but hit only air. “You bunch of bastards. Suck-baits. Get off—”
Archie slapped her cheek. Twice. The shock silenced her, but the hot smarting sensation seared her rage.
“Now this is how it’ll happen,” he said. “I don’t give a shit who you really are. Not now. But I am locking you in a cube for two days. Give you a chance to think things over. Then you’re taking the first shuttle back to a hundred zee. You’ll sign my contract for three years, with all the perks I promised you. Until that expires, you won’t leave the maze except when I give permission, and you’ll have an escort. No messing. Try anything else and you will die. I promise you. Oh and by the way, ever insult my wives again and you’ll wind up spreading rug twenty-four-seven…in a very dark room.”
She had to escape…before the horror flooded in…she had to rise, to steal out of body to where physical pain couldn’t touch her and where she was master of all. The only place she’d ever truly known herself. The last safe—
Crack!
Archie slapped her awake, held her face in his hands, then sprouted a sickly grin. “Not yet, princess. I want to introduce you to one of our investors. He’s traveled a long way, and he’s been dying to play the one and only Varinia Wilcox. So be a good sport tomorrow, will you? Lose convincingly.” He chuckled, then squeezed her cheeks until her lips bunched open. “After all, you should be used to that by now.”
Genetically modified to ripen quickly and survive in low-oxygen environs, the pale green apples were crisp and sweet. As Solomon munched on his second, he checked the solar-powered clock hanging from the greenhouse roof. Twelve-thirty had been and gone. No sign of Varinia. He shifted his weight on the creaking wicker chair in the shade of an oversized apple tree. “You don’t get many pickers these days, I’m guessing?” he asked the twin gardeners, plump Chinese girls in their early twenties.
“We prefer it that way,” the shorter, cuter one piped up. “Our papa used to say the only thing a plant needs to survive is the one thing man is incapable of providing.”
“And what’s that?”
“His absence.”
“Hmm. Doesn’t really hold true out here, though, does it? I mean, without us, there wouldn’t be a garden.”
“Right.” The second twin lugged a bushel of apples over to her roly-poly helper. “The garden shouldn’t be here. And neither should we.”
“That’s an odd thing for a gardener to say.”
“Is it? All I meant is that none of this is natural. We’re in a greenhouse inside a greenhouse. The asteroid is spinning so fast these plants don’t know which way is up. And the nearest genuine atmosphere suitable for them is light-years away. They’ve no business being here.”
“In that case…” Solomon gave a sigh, “…they can join the club.”
“Exactly, friend.” The shorter twin handed him a rare red apple, winked, then left with the roly-poly, ushering it deeper into the warm and misty greenhouse.
An artificial swamp for Venusian orchids attracted one or two visitors. On the far side, a diminutive woman wearing overalls and thick gloves, probably the girls’ mother, watered a row of Jaguar altos with her hose. He identified them from their silver stems and the quiet but high-pitched note they sang when their thirst was quenched—on their home world, it was during the monsoon. But the twins were right, this doomed colony was no place for sensitive living
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