Cecelia Holland - Floating Worlds

He looked in the door. It hissed open, and he took a step toward the vast bright store inside. “How much time do we have?” Paula followed him into the store. He put the box down to turn a rack of book plugs. When he went off he left the box on the floor and she carried it. He led her up and down the aisles; he looked at everything, the stacks of shoes, a three-color animation selling vitamin lamps, boxes of buttons, wrapping paper and ribbon. She picked up a child’s striped shirt. It looked too small to fit anything human. Next to the counter of children’s clothes was a counter of bright little sweaters and boots for dogs. When she looked around, the Styth was gone.

“Saba?”

“Here.”

She went into the next aisle. Three illusion helmets were sitting on a display shelf; he was reading the price tags. He said, “Everything here costs about twice as much as it’s worth. How do these things work?”

The counter behind them was piled up with cut-rate illusions. She took one at random and stuck it into the slot on the back of a helmet. “These knobs adjust the size. Put it on your head.”

He stuck his head into it, stood a moment clutching the plastic bubble, and yanked it off. He held the helmet out in front of him and tried to see the illusion without putting his head into it.

“It won’t go on unless your head’s inside.”

“It feels—” He looked around, taking a reconnaissance, and put the helmet back on. Paula set the box down on the counter. Illusion helmets always made her feel locked in a closet. He took it off again and studied it.

“I want one of these.” He put it back over his head and played with the knobs. She looked up at him, dismayed.

He bought the illusion helmet and six cartridges, drew on his hand with red lip-slicker and blue eye color and bought several boxes of that. He bit a cheap necklace and lost interest when he realized it was plastic. He flicked his claws at a headless mannequin wearing a bra and a girdle. “That’s disgusting—putting that up for people to look at.”

She laughed. “We ought to go. I think we’re late already.” Her arms ached from carrying the box. She shifted it elaborately, to draw his attention, but he ignored it. They went toward the door. A mechanical female voice was talking out of the ceiling; she said, “Have you bought your Optima card yet? Remember, every month, card-holders receive special low prices on a wide range of needed items.” The door opened itself for them.

The mall was cool and dark. Paula boosted up the big package in her arms. They went up the wide steps to the surface. He slung the bag with the illusion helmet over his shoulder.

“I went all through there looking for something I could give you but there wasn’t anything I thought you’d want.”

They walked along a wide graded path. On either side of it were dogwood trees. She could not make out his expression. “You’re very smooth.”

“You suspect everything I do.”

“Everything you do is suspect.”

“No—you’re just a suspicious bitch.” They went across the dark grass to the Committee office.

Jefferson and Bunker were in the meeting room. The woman sat at the table, eating candy, while the man sat in a chair by the wall and argued with her. Paula went into the room, taking her jacket off. She turned to Michalski, who had followed them in.

“Can you dim the lights down?”

“Sure.”

Jefferson said, “You’re improving, Mendoza, you’re only an hour and ten minutes late. Good evening, Akellar.”

He turned a chair around, its back to the table, and put one knee on it.

The ceiling lights dimmed to half-strength. The Akellar looked up. Paula went off to the end of the room, past Bunker, who was watching the big Styth. They had only met once before, at the entry port. Jefferson was explaining how the transcribing equipment in the table worked.

“Is it on now?” the Akellar asked.

“No,” Jefferson said.

“Then turn it on, because I have an offer to make you.”

Paula swung around, and Bunker took his hands out of his pockets. The big man faced the three anarchists. He rocked his weight forward; he looked cramped in the room, his head and shoulders confined under the low ceiling. He said, “I don’t pretend I understand you people, but I know what you want. I’m willing to sign a truce with the Interplanetary Council, and I’ll sell licenses to trade in Matuko and sell Matuko crystal to the rock-worlds. I want that money, in metal, iron if you can get it, and I want my rights with her and her baby.”

Paula went up to the table. Her mouth was dry.

Jefferson said, “How much money?”

“It comes to twenty-six million dollars over five years,” Paula said.

Bunker kicked at the floor. “What rights with her?”

“She goes with me,” the Styth said. “Now.”

“To Uranus?”

Paula sat down. Jefferson’s mouth was pursed, her thin gray eyebrows arced like bows. The Akellar rocked back and forth on his knee on the chair, staring at Bunker.

“It’s my baby.”

Jefferson said, “How long a truce?”

“One hundred thousand watches.”

“Ten years,” Paula said.

“Good,” Jefferson said. “That’s a good length.”

“You aren’t serious?” Bunker shot a furious glance at Paula and went the length of the table to Jefferson. “What the hell are you doing? She set this up with him. She’s trading us off.”

“Do you agree to go?” Jefferson asked Paula. She put a mint into her mouth. Paula nodded. The old woman sucked on her candy, her hard blue eyes going to Bunker. “I like it. It’s practical, it might work, and I can sell it to the Council.”

The anarchist circled the table. “You Fascist,” he said to Paula. He went past the Styth and out the door. It slammed behind him.

Paula sat down. Jefferson said, “He’s getting narrow, Richard, in his dotage.” She tipped up the lid of the recorder in the table and pushed buttons. Above her head, Paula met the round black eyes of the Styth, triumphant.

An Chu spread out the skirts of the black dress and folded them carefully in layers of tissue. “Can I write you?”

“I don’t see how you’d post it.”

“Maybe it would be easier for you to write me.”

Paula was packing her books into the pockets of a flannel cloth. She rolled it up and tied the tape. The room was stripped to the walls and floor. She had sold her bed and given away everything else she was leaving behind. She put her flute into the satchel bag with the books.

“Help me,” An Chu said, sitting on the suitcase. While they were buckling the straps there was a knock on the door.

It was Dick Bunker. Paula bent over the suitcase again. “What do you want?”

“Junior, why are you doing this?”

“It’s my treaty.” She closed the satchel. “I can manage it better in Styth than here.” She stood up. The naked room looked smaller, like a cage. An Chu glanced from her to Bunker and lugged the suitcase out. He tipped himself up against the wall.

“You won’t be much use dead, or locked up in a harem, or in a slave market, which is where you’ll be.”

“You certainly know a lot, for somebody who spends all his time talking.”

They faced each other. His eyes were black as a Styth’s. After a moment, he said, “I apologize for losing my temper yesterday.”

“It doesn’t bother me if you get emotional. Do you have something you want to say?”

“The Lunar Army blotted the scan of Ybix .”

“Oh. That’s typical.”

“Will you take a sensor inboard with you?”

She snatched her jacket off the doorknob and thrust her arms into the sleeves. “He’d kill me. I’m not that stupid. Get out of my way.” She grabbed the satchel. He backed up, and she went out the door after An Chu.