Read Online White Queen by Gwyneth Jones - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gwyneth Jones
Tags: Science-Fiction, reincarnation fiction, Journalists - Fiction, Human-Alien Encounters—Fiction, Feminist Science Fiction, Tiptree Award winner
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half million people, a sprawling de facto arcology of plastic burrows, decrepit clapboard and half-empty power starved towers. If revolutionary violence broke out in St Francis, Everard’s duty was clear and horrible.
Major Louis Parker, the commander’s PRO and (in the modern structure)second in command, was a stocky Afro American with a wife and two children on the base; Everard was a childless widower. He had a reputation among the men for cautious and intelligent kindness. As they waited for the floodgates to open, he listened patiently to Everard. St Francis town—the blue lit burrows paved in spongy carpet tile that smelt always of stale beer and vomit, the miserable population, the mindless murders. There was nothing for the people to do, besides drink and watch fabulous animations in the movie theatres. Or else stay at home and spy on each other through the soap nets. They lived on handouts. They didn’t go outside. No one stopped them, but there was nowhere to go, no fuel to spend.
The base had been at action stations, all overground duties suspended, since the State of Emergency was declared. The bunker’s main screen window showed an idyllic scene: burrows and silos overgrown with nodding flowers, like the peaceful ruins of some long-dead civilization. Only the all-weather strip, and the perimeter fence, spoiled the illusion.
“It’s the death of capitalism,” said Everard. “Okay, Communism had to go first. But there’s too many people, that’s the beginning and end of it. No system can survive. We’re going to see the Dark Ages return, Lou, right here in the USA.”
The revolution, which had at first seemed such an ebullient success, had suffered a few mood swings in the last weeks. But the arcologists were unlikely to stampede, and almost certainly there would be no order to harm them if they did. Very shortly Parker expected to hear that the President had finally surrendered, and the phony civil war was over. But Everard was beyond reason in these moods.
An aircraft appeared, coming in to land. It touched down silently, a black and white checkered spaceplane without visible ID. Both men stared at it, and slowly, as if drawn up on strings, rose to their feet. Six people left the plane. Nothing else stirred.
“Oh, my God.”
“Systems failure,” stated Parker. “Excuse me Sir—”
The plane had not registered, did not register, on horizonless radar. It did not exist, it had never been in the sky. But there it stood.
There was no eyes-on human surveillance outside, closer than the main gates. There was nothing on the board to show that any man on duty had noticed this invasion. Parker did not raise the alarm. Six figures crossed the window. A full frontal view of them, starred by frisking lines, showed at bunker access.
“Who are you?” said Parker. “What do you want?”
The man was wearing a light brown coverall, again without any ID. He was unarmed, unaugmented, carried no communication devices.
“Access,” he explained, in nasal and oddly uninflected English. “This is Access time. Isn’t that right.”
The visitors all wore light brown coveralls, but each of them had added some form of decoration. One wore plastic clamshell fragments knotted in her hair, another had a “sealskin” tunic strung with fringing and beads; and so on. They were uniformly slender limbed but bulky in the trunk. Their hair was dark and lank, their skins medium light. They had no noses. They came into the colonel’s office smiling grotesquely, showing their open hands, the fingers pointing downwards.
One of the six was a child about ten years old. He perched himself at the communications console to the right of the commander’s desk. He ran his hands over the keypads: an odd gesture, as if he were stroking a pet animal. Then he went in slickly, never pausing for a second.
Louis Parker watched, fascinated, still unsure what kind of incident he was facing. Public access—livespace—was such a
Major Louis Parker, the commander’s PRO and (in the modern structure)second in command, was a stocky Afro American with a wife and two children on the base; Everard was a childless widower. He had a reputation among the men for cautious and intelligent kindness. As they waited for the floodgates to open, he listened patiently to Everard. St Francis town—the blue lit burrows paved in spongy carpet tile that smelt always of stale beer and vomit, the miserable population, the mindless murders. There was nothing for the people to do, besides drink and watch fabulous animations in the movie theatres. Or else stay at home and spy on each other through the soap nets. They lived on handouts. They didn’t go outside. No one stopped them, but there was nowhere to go, no fuel to spend.
The base had been at action stations, all overground duties suspended, since the State of Emergency was declared. The bunker’s main screen window showed an idyllic scene: burrows and silos overgrown with nodding flowers, like the peaceful ruins of some long-dead civilization. Only the all-weather strip, and the perimeter fence, spoiled the illusion.
“It’s the death of capitalism,” said Everard. “Okay, Communism had to go first. But there’s too many people, that’s the beginning and end of it. No system can survive. We’re going to see the Dark Ages return, Lou, right here in the USA.”
The revolution, which had at first seemed such an ebullient success, had suffered a few mood swings in the last weeks. But the arcologists were unlikely to stampede, and almost certainly there would be no order to harm them if they did. Very shortly Parker expected to hear that the President had finally surrendered, and the phony civil war was over. But Everard was beyond reason in these moods.
An aircraft appeared, coming in to land. It touched down silently, a black and white checkered spaceplane without visible ID. Both men stared at it, and slowly, as if drawn up on strings, rose to their feet. Six people left the plane. Nothing else stirred.
“Oh, my God.”
“Systems failure,” stated Parker. “Excuse me Sir—”
The plane had not registered, did not register, on horizonless radar. It did not exist, it had never been in the sky. But there it stood.
There was no eyes-on human surveillance outside, closer than the main gates. There was nothing on the board to show that any man on duty had noticed this invasion. Parker did not raise the alarm. Six figures crossed the window. A full frontal view of them, starred by frisking lines, showed at bunker access.
“Who are you?” said Parker. “What do you want?”
The man was wearing a light brown coverall, again without any ID. He was unarmed, unaugmented, carried no communication devices.
“Access,” he explained, in nasal and oddly uninflected English. “This is Access time. Isn’t that right.”
The visitors all wore light brown coveralls, but each of them had added some form of decoration. One wore plastic clamshell fragments knotted in her hair, another had a “sealskin” tunic strung with fringing and beads; and so on. They were uniformly slender limbed but bulky in the trunk. Their hair was dark and lank, their skins medium light. They had no noses. They came into the colonel’s office smiling grotesquely, showing their open hands, the fingers pointing downwards.
One of the six was a child about ten years old. He perched himself at the communications console to the right of the commander’s desk. He ran his hands over the keypads: an odd gesture, as if he were stroking a pet animal. Then he went in slickly, never pausing for a second.
Louis Parker watched, fascinated, still unsure what kind of incident he was facing. Public access—livespace—was such a
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