skin’s oxy uptake and diffusion. That night, and for a long time after, all I cared about was their beauty.
I had a heavy hand with the protective oil. When you’re young, you don’t realize how precious things are; you think there will always be plenty, at no cost. And that’s how it should be—when you’re young.
So Tata never corrected me when I oiled her skin so lavishly that clear droplets splashed down upon the metal frame where it was strung. She only guided my hand gently, so that my over-enthusiastic brushing wouldn’t pull the golden fur out by its roots. I felt proud of my handiwork.
Tata didn’t really need my help, though. Her skin had plenty of time to reoxygenate without the brush’s added stimulation; she didn’t wear it much.
She was supposed to go out into the Nassea every Day, supervising my father’s other maggies as they planted coral buds on the submerged mountaintops of New Bahama.
But the others didn’t need her watching them, telling them what to do. Terraforming work is simple, though hard; repetitive, dangerous, but nothing that requires any initiative. They were used to it; it’s the sort of thing they had been engineered to do in the first place, before the rebellion.
My father plotted the maps, which the hull window displayed. The maggies had no trouble reading them. They filled their quotas, mostly. Dad’s team was a little ways behind all but two of the other stations. I don’t know if there would have been fewer problems if Tata had gone out there as often as her contract said she was supposed to. Dad didn’t think so.
Tata wore her skin once a worlday, swimming in it through the Nassea to Quarters. I went with her, once, fifteen Days after I arrived. That is, I followed her in Dad’s scooter. Squirming to keep from slipping down its couch’s gentle curves, I wondered what sort of passenger its designers had had in mind. Not me; I was so short I could barely keep my face in the navigation display’s headsup field. But not Dad either. I have great spatial-relational skills for a girl, and I could see he’d have a hard time fitting in here. Which was probably why he never used the thing.
Not that that would keep him from punishing me for borrowing it.
I struggled back to the headsup. Tata’s skin lost its golden color in the infrared, but it gained a luminescent trail, a filigree of warmth flowing from her skin’s alveolets as they dissipated her waste gases. Fizzing like a juice-tab in the murky silence of the Nassea, my father’s chief maggie dropped down towards Quarters.
Or so I assumed. All I saw in the headsup were a few patches of heat, hardly more than a supercolony of microbes could produce.
I settled into the sediment and switched on the visibles. The headsup compensated quickly, and I saw an opening in the silver egg-shape of Quarters, cycling shut on shadows. The scooter’s lights shone steadily into the diminishing hatch. Tata had to know I was out here, now, if she hadn’t sensed me earlier. I’d been hanging back, more shy than afraid of being shooed back home.
So what exactly did I expect to happen, now that I’d gotten this far?
Quarters were detachable modules, little self-contained living units sent out from the maggies’ huge Habs. Maybe the rule against us entering their protected areas was relaxed here. Or maybe they’d make an exception for a child.… But that hatch was obviously too small for the scooter. I knew there was an inflatable suit somewhere under the cushions. After I put it on, though, I’d have to flood the scooter to get outside, and I was probably in enough trouble already. The headsup’s clock warped and disappeared as I slid lower and lower, disappointed with the limits of my success.
I jerked up like an electrified water-flea. The phone! I let it ring a few more times before cutting it on with one wavering hand.
“Kayley?” It was Tata, voice only. Among themselves, especially, maggies mostly signed. But of
I had a heavy hand with the protective oil. When you’re young, you don’t realize how precious things are; you think there will always be plenty, at no cost. And that’s how it should be—when you’re young.
So Tata never corrected me when I oiled her skin so lavishly that clear droplets splashed down upon the metal frame where it was strung. She only guided my hand gently, so that my over-enthusiastic brushing wouldn’t pull the golden fur out by its roots. I felt proud of my handiwork.
Tata didn’t really need my help, though. Her skin had plenty of time to reoxygenate without the brush’s added stimulation; she didn’t wear it much.
She was supposed to go out into the Nassea every Day, supervising my father’s other maggies as they planted coral buds on the submerged mountaintops of New Bahama.
But the others didn’t need her watching them, telling them what to do. Terraforming work is simple, though hard; repetitive, dangerous, but nothing that requires any initiative. They were used to it; it’s the sort of thing they had been engineered to do in the first place, before the rebellion.
My father plotted the maps, which the hull window displayed. The maggies had no trouble reading them. They filled their quotas, mostly. Dad’s team was a little ways behind all but two of the other stations. I don’t know if there would have been fewer problems if Tata had gone out there as often as her contract said she was supposed to. Dad didn’t think so.
Tata wore her skin once a worlday, swimming in it through the Nassea to Quarters. I went with her, once, fifteen Days after I arrived. That is, I followed her in Dad’s scooter. Squirming to keep from slipping down its couch’s gentle curves, I wondered what sort of passenger its designers had had in mind. Not me; I was so short I could barely keep my face in the navigation display’s headsup field. But not Dad either. I have great spatial-relational skills for a girl, and I could see he’d have a hard time fitting in here. Which was probably why he never used the thing.
Not that that would keep him from punishing me for borrowing it.
I struggled back to the headsup. Tata’s skin lost its golden color in the infrared, but it gained a luminescent trail, a filigree of warmth flowing from her skin’s alveolets as they dissipated her waste gases. Fizzing like a juice-tab in the murky silence of the Nassea, my father’s chief maggie dropped down towards Quarters.
Or so I assumed. All I saw in the headsup were a few patches of heat, hardly more than a supercolony of microbes could produce.
I settled into the sediment and switched on the visibles. The headsup compensated quickly, and I saw an opening in the silver egg-shape of Quarters, cycling shut on shadows. The scooter’s lights shone steadily into the diminishing hatch. Tata had to know I was out here, now, if she hadn’t sensed me earlier. I’d been hanging back, more shy than afraid of being shooed back home.
So what exactly did I expect to happen, now that I’d gotten this far?
Quarters were detachable modules, little self-contained living units sent out from the maggies’ huge Habs. Maybe the rule against us entering their protected areas was relaxed here. Or maybe they’d make an exception for a child.… But that hatch was obviously too small for the scooter. I knew there was an inflatable suit somewhere under the cushions. After I put it on, though, I’d have to flood the scooter to get outside, and I was probably in enough trouble already. The headsup’s clock warped and disappeared as I slid lower and lower, disappointed with the limits of my success.
I jerked up like an electrified water-flea. The phone! I let it ring a few more times before cutting it on with one wavering hand.
“Kayley?” It was Tata, voice only. Among themselves, especially, maggies mostly signed. But of
Similar Books
