storage huts for bee equipment.’
‘Maybe.’ Neil sounded unconvinced. He reset the program to manual. The floater landed between the hills.
This time Neil didn’t ask if I wanted to come or not.
The air smelt dusty and sweet at the same time. I wondered if the vegetation had been Engineered for maximum perfume as well as maximum nectar — or did the two go together — but I didn’t care enough to scroll through the data to find out. Bees sang around us.
‘Which building?’ I whispered, then wondered why I was whispering. But the hum of bees only accentuated the lack of other sounds.
‘That one,’ Neil pointed to the largest. ‘I bet the others are just sheds.’
There were paths to the buildings — not plasticrete or even gravel, just hard-packed dirt pressed solid by yearsof being walked on. A small solar roof covered a bore well with a tap next to the casing dripping into a wide dish where bees clustered and sipped. I wondered if the bore was their only source of water.
Beyond the tap a small garden wilted on the shaly soil: tall leafy plants I didn’t recognise, three tomato bushes and then the unexpected lushness of rows of corn, tall and green and evidently Engineered to tolerate the harsh conditions.
Close up the building looked even more like a mound of dirt. In fact it was dirt, mixed with some stabiliser and pressed over a plasticrete structure perhaps, with tussocks and grass achieving a precarious foothold in the covering of soil. There was no sign of solar paint — you can’t paint dirt, after all — or even ancient solar panels, so I presumed the inhabitants, if there were any, did without electric power apart from the solar pump for their bore.
There was no door either. Instead a badly tanned shoat skin hung from the lintel.
‘Will you yell or will I?’ I whispered.
‘Anyone there?’ Neil’s voice echoed from the hills.
The bees’ buzzing grew more frantic. But no-one answered.
‘Hello?’
Still silence.
Neil shrugged. ‘Didn’t really expect an answer,’ he said quietly. ‘If there’d been anyone to see us they’d have come out when the floater landed.’
‘Maybe they’re out tending more hives somewhere else.’
Neil shook his head. He gestured wordlessly towards one of the other earth mounds. The door on this one was wide enough to see a shabby floater in its shadows. I could just make out the plasticrete roof beams too.
Neil pulled the curtain aside.
The smell struck me first — a mix of sweetness and decay. Then my eyes adjusted to the dimness.
One large room, domed ceiling, roughly rounded walls, the dirt evidently packed hard and sealed with something waterproof but colourless, so the walls were still their original orange-grey.
A table to one side, near the door, with a many branched candlestick, the candles melted into stalagmites of wax on the table. Rough pottery bowls, one containing honeycomb where a few stray bees busily sucked. A slab-like loaf of corn bread with slices cut from one end. A knife, and two clay beakers, the same colour as the soil and house.
A bookcase stood next to the table. There were Realbooks too, not modern synthies with feelie and music additions. The covers looked faded and worn. I thought of my own books at home. I’d grown fond of Realbooks during the time I wasn’t able to receive Virtuals or the subtitles on vid.
I wondered where they’d bought the books. Had they been lying in some dusty Outlands shed for generations? A box of them traded for honey or wax candles? Or had they been treasured, passed down from parent to child? I’d never know.
The bodies lay on the bed. There were two of them, a man and a woman. Truenorm by the look of them and either young or well rejuved, which, given the poverty around them, wasn’t likely. They had evidently grown ill then died together. The bedclothes were pulled up over them; two beakers of water stood on the roughly built bedside table.
I crossed over to them, and
‘Maybe.’ Neil sounded unconvinced. He reset the program to manual. The floater landed between the hills.
This time Neil didn’t ask if I wanted to come or not.
The air smelt dusty and sweet at the same time. I wondered if the vegetation had been Engineered for maximum perfume as well as maximum nectar — or did the two go together — but I didn’t care enough to scroll through the data to find out. Bees sang around us.
‘Which building?’ I whispered, then wondered why I was whispering. But the hum of bees only accentuated the lack of other sounds.
‘That one,’ Neil pointed to the largest. ‘I bet the others are just sheds.’
There were paths to the buildings — not plasticrete or even gravel, just hard-packed dirt pressed solid by yearsof being walked on. A small solar roof covered a bore well with a tap next to the casing dripping into a wide dish where bees clustered and sipped. I wondered if the bore was their only source of water.
Beyond the tap a small garden wilted on the shaly soil: tall leafy plants I didn’t recognise, three tomato bushes and then the unexpected lushness of rows of corn, tall and green and evidently Engineered to tolerate the harsh conditions.
Close up the building looked even more like a mound of dirt. In fact it was dirt, mixed with some stabiliser and pressed over a plasticrete structure perhaps, with tussocks and grass achieving a precarious foothold in the covering of soil. There was no sign of solar paint — you can’t paint dirt, after all — or even ancient solar panels, so I presumed the inhabitants, if there were any, did without electric power apart from the solar pump for their bore.
There was no door either. Instead a badly tanned shoat skin hung from the lintel.
‘Will you yell or will I?’ I whispered.
‘Anyone there?’ Neil’s voice echoed from the hills.
The bees’ buzzing grew more frantic. But no-one answered.
‘Hello?’
Still silence.
Neil shrugged. ‘Didn’t really expect an answer,’ he said quietly. ‘If there’d been anyone to see us they’d have come out when the floater landed.’
‘Maybe they’re out tending more hives somewhere else.’
Neil shook his head. He gestured wordlessly towards one of the other earth mounds. The door on this one was wide enough to see a shabby floater in its shadows. I could just make out the plasticrete roof beams too.
Neil pulled the curtain aside.
The smell struck me first — a mix of sweetness and decay. Then my eyes adjusted to the dimness.
One large room, domed ceiling, roughly rounded walls, the dirt evidently packed hard and sealed with something waterproof but colourless, so the walls were still their original orange-grey.
A table to one side, near the door, with a many branched candlestick, the candles melted into stalagmites of wax on the table. Rough pottery bowls, one containing honeycomb where a few stray bees busily sucked. A slab-like loaf of corn bread with slices cut from one end. A knife, and two clay beakers, the same colour as the soil and house.
A bookcase stood next to the table. There were Realbooks too, not modern synthies with feelie and music additions. The covers looked faded and worn. I thought of my own books at home. I’d grown fond of Realbooks during the time I wasn’t able to receive Virtuals or the subtitles on vid.
I wondered where they’d bought the books. Had they been lying in some dusty Outlands shed for generations? A box of them traded for honey or wax candles? Or had they been treasured, passed down from parent to child? I’d never know.
The bodies lay on the bed. There were two of them, a man and a woman. Truenorm by the look of them and either young or well rejuved, which, given the poverty around them, wasn’t likely. They had evidently grown ill then died together. The bedclothes were pulled up over them; two beakers of water stood on the roughly built bedside table.
I crossed over to them, and
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