Geoff Ryman - The Child Garden

When I am made Terminal, the Consensus will think I’m the crazy one.

‘I told you the light was too strong,’ said Ms Will.

The thirty-five-year-old boatboy punted them to the floating market. It was some five kilometres away from the smoke of the funereal Estate.

As if in Remembrance, everyone in the market sang, another formless chorus, but this one sounded joyful. People sang of onions piled high in their punts, or of lotus fresh and crisp. They sang of reed blankets, soft as a kiss. They sang of fish steamed with ginger, or frogs’ legs in garlic. Instead of black smoke, there was a sizzling sound and wafts of spicy food.

‘Stop here, boy,’ said Ms Will.

He grabbed hold of a mooring post and pulled them in next to a barge that sold fruit. A woman of about sixteen looked up at them and beamed. Her shirt was printed in colours and patterns that seemed to jump and dance. A flower, a water lily, was wound into her hair. Oh, to be as safe and happy as you, thought Milena.

Ms Will complained that there were no bananas.

‘Bananas mostly grow on the Continent,’ the woman explained. ‘That’s burned dry.’

‘They should grow them here,’ said Ms Will. She bought water chestnuts instead. Ms Will saved bags. The bags were made of resin and were slithery to hold. Milena blinked. She seemed to have something in her eye.

The bag was filled and without saying a word, Ms Will held it out towards Milena to carry it for her. How miserable it must be to be you, thought Milena. She felt a surge of sympathy for Ms Will. It can be so difficult to be happy. Milena took one bag, and then another. Whatever was in her eye became increasingly irritating.

‘Oh,’ said Ms Will. ‘I’ve forgotten my money. Could you pay for this?’

So much for sympathy. Milena was going to look for her purse. Ms Will’s face became a smear. Water streamed out of her eyes.

‘Could you take the bags for a moment?’ Milena asked. ‘I’ve got to get my money out.’

Ms Will looked glum. ‘I’m not sure I can hold them,’ she said.

‘Well then I can’t get my money out,’ said Milena, with a slightly exasperated chuckle. She blinked trying to clear her eyes. Sunlight wriggled on the water, searing.

Ms Will reluctantly took the bags, and Milena pulled out her purse.

The light from the water swam in the water in her eyes.

Then it focused blazing inside them.

‘Ow!’ howled Milena.

The light drew even brighter into hard fierce knots. Milena was screaming, and threw her head to one side. The wriggling light seemed to swim after her, like worms. It was as if plasma direct from the sun had been planted in her eyes. She could feel the jelly in them heat up.

She screamed and dropped the purse. She was dimly aware of the sound of coins rolling out over the prow of the boat.

Lady, Lady, said voices all around her. Milena was aware that she was making an animal sound, a high helpless screeching. Her hands were pressed over her eyes, tears streaming between her fingers. There was darkness. There was relief. No light at all to exchange. She sobbed helplessly as the pain subsided, as purple patterns floated glowing on her retina.

‘We’ll get your purse, Lady. We’ll get your money,’ someone was saying.

There was inside her ear, a shivering. The shivering took shape into a voice.

‘You don’t like the light, do you, Milena? It shows the truth.’ Her eyes screwed shut, Milena jammed her fingers into her ears.

It seemed as if there was a fly buzzing just inside her nostrils. The fly spoke with a buzzing voice, resonating out of the bones of her septum and cheeks and sinuses.

‘Hear no evil. See no evil. Must be a first time for you,’ said the voice. ‘You’re going to go to the Zoo, Milena. You’re going to go to the Zoo to tell them you want Thrawn McCartney to work on the Comedy.’

Then, like a ghost, it was gone.

Milena opened her eyes. Her cheeks were smeared with tears, and there were still burning purple shapes hovering in front of her eyes. She very nearly blinded me, thought Milena.

‘Where’s my money?’ she asked. ‘Does someone have my money?’

The viruses had made people scrupulously honest.

‘Yes, Lady, the boys dived for it. They found some of it for you.’ It was the flower girl, pressing wet coins into her hand.

‘Is there enough for a punt or a taxi there?’ Milena sniffed. ‘I can’t see!’ Milena’s voice broke with distress and fear. Damn her. She’s got me dancing like a puppet. Consoling hands held her.

Yes, oh, yes, said many people, all around her.

‘I have to see someone at the Zoo,’ Milena whispered. ‘They may be able to help.’ She felt herself being helped towards another boat.

‘Oh dear,’ said Ms Will. ‘What about my fruit and chestnuts?’

‘You can pay for those later,’ the flower girl told Ms Will. I bet she doesn’t, thought Milena.

Many hands lowered her into another punt. A cushion was moved behind her.

Milena felt the boat wobble sideways away from the mooring. It moved out onto the water. She felt the tickle in her ear. It seemed to shiver into place.

‘Good girl,’ said the voice in her ear, as if to a dog. ‘Good little Milena. You always try to do the right thing. You have such high standards of behaviour.’

Milena settled back on the cushion, and drew a deep, trembling breath. I need a kerchief to tie around my eyes, she thought. I need plugs for my ears.

Someone started to sing, from the prow of the boat.

Lady oh lay hah

Lady remember me?

It’s the boy, she thought, it’s the same boy who brought me out here.

Are you ill, Lady?

Are you ill like me?

Ill? thought Milena. ‘Are you a Singer?’ she asked. He hadn’t been a Singer a week ago.

Now I am Lady

I have to sing to speak.

This far? It’s come out this far already? And Milena had a saddening thought: I’m the only thing that’s come out this far. What if I brought it with me?

‘Sing then,’ she asked the boy.

‘Poison,’ said the voice in her ear. ‘You are poison.’

All the way back across the Slump, the boy sang. He ran out of songs, and began to make up music without words. It was as if he was singing about the beauty of the world that Milena could no longer see. When she ventured to open her eyes, she would catch a glimpse of blue water and soft, silver-grey reeds. Then the light in her eyes was scattered, disturbed. It dissolved into a shapeless, queasy, oily mass. Thrawn was in her eyes.

‘Don’t you just love games?’ whispered the voice.

I have to be able to see the cube, thought Milena. She can stop me hologramming. She can stop me doing the Comedy. Does that matter? The important thing is that the Comedy is produced. I could just go to Moira and say, this is too much, I can’t do it, get someone else. But then, Thrawn might be able to persuade them to use her as a technician, and that does matter. And there is no guarantee that she would stop doing this to me.

I have to find a way to protect myself against this somehow. There must be some way to cut off the light, make it difficult for her to focus.

Milena opened her eyes. For a moment, she could see the world. Then it melted. She moved her head, and the world returned, before subsiding again into a chaos of colour. She moved her head once more, and then the light flared up hot and dazzling again.

‘Ow,’ said Milena again and went still.

The band of focus was small in itself, with plenty of opportunity for error. And Thrawn needed enough light to focus in the first place.

And suddenly, Milena had an answer. In the Cut the week before, there had been a Seller of Games, a great booming woman with a very high, but very loud voice. She had been a Singer, too.