When he finally
caught his breath and his vision cleared, he was looking into the faces of six
people. A grizzled old man said, “Who are you? And if you don’t give me the
right answer, you’re both dead.”
Stepan
Izmaylova said, “Stepan...”
One of the
women staring down at him – old, wrinkled, leathery-skinned-but-not-haggard,
more with a face that was a roadmap. Her road appeared to have led to
heartbreak and sorrow. Obviously she’d spent years on the surface, living in a
space suit. He squinted, thinking that for some reason, he recognized her. But
she said abruptly, “That’s not his name.”
For an instant
panic seized him. In that instant, she said, “His name is Natan Wallach and he’s
the Hero of the Faith Wars!”
Immediately the
circle opened up. Hands that had been prepared to beat him, lifted him instead.
Someone even helped Quinn dust himself off where he’d been thrown to the
ground.
“What are you
doing here, Mr. Wallach?” an older man said. Stepan heard the implied, “With
this blue urchin...” Stepan considered. Was this a congregation of unbelievers
who would be offended – and possibly turn murderous if he mentioned his
conversion? Would they beat him blood or toss him out an airlock? He wasn’t
worried about that. He was ready to die for his belief. But what about Quinn?
They’d kill him for certain because he might not be as young a man as he
looked. Artificial Humans were manufactured of blue flesh and blood. Their
neither grew nor aged, they wore out. Quinn might have been an AH who lynched a
dozen Human farmers in Heinlein Station, hanging them from a microwave relay
tower to blow in the thin winds of Mars.
Stepan said, “I’m
doing charity work on the Rim.” He lowered his voice, adding, “Give a Rimmer a
guinea and he’ll have a snack; teach to breed the guineas and sell half a dozen
for a hammock.” He hated the slur.
Quinn hated it
as well, judging from his flash of anger. But the HODfolk laughed, surrounded
him and ushered him out of the trash pick-up shelter he and Quinn had come up
in. The streets outside were paved with cushions of CHEAPALIN for maglev
transportation, lined on either side with sidewalks and elaborate, xerographic
landscaping. Pink adobe homes in the fashion of the ancient American West pueblo
spaced regularly along the street were surrounded by blooming cacti and desert
plants. The temperature was a balmy, dry 27C. Sunlight streamed through a
dust-free patch of the Dome and he realized he was sweating. The first time
ever since arriving on Mars and defecting from the Unified Faith In Humanity.
The group
called out to their friends, explaining whom they’d found in their garbage bins
and it became more elaborate in the retelling. They flooded into a park, a perfectly
landscaped wonderland. Someone finally managed to bellow out, “What in the name
of George HW Bush are you doing in the Home Owner’s District?”
Stepan
straightened his tunic and pants and said, “Like I said, I’m starting a rooftop
garden to help feed the hungry on the Rim. I’ve been directed to come and see
OM Gillard to borrow an antigrav plate to move equipment up to my roof.”
From the back
of the light-hearted mob that had grown abruptly silent came a heavy, gravelly,
dark voice, “Who takes my name in vain?”
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