Flowercrash by Stephen Palmer

“Then I shall aid you. Should you go.”
    “I think I shall go.”
    “I shall request Dustspirit for aid.”
    Manserphine thought back to her encounter with the spirit in the motes. “Scentless. I fear Dustspirit. That is, I fear her fragrance.”
    Cirishnyan frowned and seemed close to an outburst. Pollonzyn moved to steady her, but Cirishnyan waved her away, saying, “I need no trellis! Manserphine, you must understand that Dustspirit is a purity of good colour. Fearing her is insulting her.”
    Manserphine looked away. The tension eased as silent seconds passed.
    At length Cirishnyan said, “There is one other petal of aid I can offer. A gynoid.”
    Manserphine nodded, eager to please the scowling cleric. “Scented. A strong gynoid, full of pollen.”
    “Flowered up. Knowledge me via Pollonzyn tomorrow regarding when you depart.”
    Manserphine departed the Shrine and returned to Veneris. Early evening enshadowed Zaïdmouth, and from low clouds snow fell, a light scattering that froze to the hard earth but melted on her face. As she walked, she wondered if she was doing the right thing. Yes, of course: it was the right option and it was the right time. Her banishment allowed her a certain freedom, which she must exploit. If the networks she wanted to explore were in Aequalaïs then there she must go, and if her own life was somehow linked to that urb, then all the more reason.
    After a tot of whiskey with Vishilkaïr she retired to bed. A few minutes later there came a loud crash from the adjacent corridor. Nobody stirred downstairs. Wondering if at last there was another guest, Manserphine walked along her corridor to its end, where she looked right and left. She was surprised to see Kirifaïfra walking away towards his door, naked, water running down his back and legs, steaming slightly in the cold air. She stared. His physique was as striking as his face, marred only by a scar traced down his back like a yard of string. She caught her breath in case he heard her. Guilty at this voyeurism, yet unable to resist, she watched him pause at his door, push it open with his toe, then stroll in.
    She returned to bed, where she tried to settle. The incident played on her mind. Kirifaïfra’s natural ease intrigued her, and she wondered why neither Vishilkaïr nor Omdaton had come to investigate.
    ~
    Next day Pollonzyn arrived to consider the details of the expedition, but through overhearing their conversation Vishilkaïr came to know what they were planning. He tried to dissuade Manserphine, but she was resolute.
    “It is my task,” she insisted. “Let me do what I must do.”
    “It’s too dangerous.”
    “Have you been there? No. Listen to fewer scare stories and pay more attention to the facts.”
    “Well, I won’t let you go alone,” he declared. “Kirifaïfra will go with you.”
    “I wasn’t going alone,” Manserphine replied, annoyed at his presumption. “I am going with the gynoid.”
    “Aitlantazyn,” supplied Pollonzyn.
    “So there.” Though, thinking about it, a trio including Kirifaïfra would be better. “I’ll consider your offer,” she told Vishilkaïr. “You haven’t even asked him yet.”
    “Oh, he’ll go.”
    Manserphine frowned, rattled by this certainty. Recently she had been thinking far too much about Kirifaïfra. “You will have to free him from work tomorrow.”
    “As you wish.”
    So it was settled. Next morning dawned clear and icy, and as the sun rose out of sea mist Aitlantazyn presented herself at the inn door. She was tall and bulky, but carried herself with the grace of a gymnast. A scimitar and a club hung at her belt. The pigment in her plastic skin had coalesced in the cold, making her look like the victim of dermatitis. Her huge eyes were orange with glittering golden sparks. She spoke Veneris dialect, beginning with, “Good morning, Interpreter.”
    “Manserphine,” came the automatic correction.
    “Are we ready to go?” Aitlantazyn asked.
    Manserphine