Ascending - James Alan Gardner [4]
“Can’t argue with that,” he replied, staring up at my wallabies. “You got definite photogenic appeal. Pity you look so much like a computer-generated effect.”
I did not understand him, so I assumed he was talking nonsense. Many people do. “Why are you here?” I asked. “Did Festina Ramos send you?”
“Nope, a friend of hers. Well, not exactly a friend—a fellow admiral. Alexander York.”
Uclod leered as though he believed the name would shock me. It did not. “Who is this Alexander York person? And why should I care about him even a little bit?”
The small man’s grin faded. “Missy, you have been out of touch, haven’t you?”
“I have been right here. It is everyone else who has been out of touch.”
“You got me there.” Uclod wiped sweat from his forehead. “Can we talk about this outside? My skin blocks most of the radiation in here, but I’m still getting my gizzards cooked.”
“There is no radiation in this tower,” I told him, “there is simply an abundant supply of light. But I do not want your gizzards to cook, for then you might smell even worse than you do already. Let us go.”
A Clear Path To The Exit
Together we headed for the exit. The route was unobstructed, which I found most odd: usually Ancestral Homes have dozens of elderly persons littering the floor, particularly near the front entrance. Those with brains on the verge of exhaustion have a deplorable habit of walking in from the street and flumping straight down on the closest patch of unoccupied ground. After several generations, there is no space at all in the first few rooms.
But here, the clutter had been partly cleared. Though many senile persons still sprawled about, they were all shoved against the glass walls to make an open path up the middle.
The path led straight to where I had lain.
“Did you do that?” I asked Uclod. “Did you move these people out of the way?”
“Not me, toots. It was like this when I got here.”
“Then it is a Mystery,” I told him. “I enjoy solving mysteries. I am excellent at rational deduction.”
“I can see that,” Uclod replied…though his gaze was directed at a part of my person that is seldom associated with intelligent thought.
“Wait,” I told him. “Observe my methods.” Then I walked to the side of the path and kicked an old man so hard he flew off the floor and smashed into the wall.
The secret is to get your toe underneath the body. Use a strong scooping action.
“Whoa, missy!” Uclod cried. “Are you trying to kill that guy?”
“Do not be foolish,” I answered. “My people cannot be killed. They seldom even feel pain—especially those whose brains are Tired. Look.”
I pointed to the man I had kicked. Though he now lay awkwardly against the wall, he showed no sign of being roused from his stupor; he had slept through the whole thing. On the other hand, my kick had propelled him onto an old woman, and she was not nearly so lethargic. Indeed, she embarked upon a Storm Of Invective wherein she claimed to know all about my parentage, particularly how my mother became pregnant and what unusual measures she took there-after. The woman was wrong in almost every respect, but her ill-informed harangue proved her brain was not so Tired as those around her.
“Hush, old woman,” I told her in our own language. “I wish to ask you a question.”
“Who are you calling old?” the woman grumbled. “You’re likely older than I am.”
“I am not!” I snapped.
“What’d she say?” Uclod asked. He had not understood our words, but he must have recognized the anger in my tone.
“She said I was old,” I told him. “Whereas, in fact, it is she who is elderly.”
“How can you tell?” Uclod asked. “You look the same age to me.”
“Of course, we look the same—my species ceases to change physically after the age of twenty. But mentally this woman must be older than I; she lives in an Ancestral Home.”
“You’ve lived in this same home for the past four years. How do you know that lady didn’t come in after you?”
“Because…” I stopped. I was going to say I would have noticed if someone new arrived; but perhaps that was not so certain.