Expendable - James Alan Gardner [102]
Another variation was a sign painted in loose black letters on the nearest building:
GREETINGS, SENTIENT BEINGS
WE’RE IN THE CENTRAL SQUARE
WE’LL SHOW THEM WHAT EXPENDABLE MEANS!
“What does that say?” Oar asked.
“It says hello,” I told her. “And that we’ve come to the right place.”
“It is a very big place,” Oar said, staring out on the forest of towers, domes, and blockhouses.
“Be brave.” I gave her a squeeze, telling myself not to feel awkward about touching her “Walton said we should walk to the center now.”
It was a long walk; it was a big city. I wondered how many ancient humans had been brought here…certainly not enough to fill the place. After living in grass huts or wattle-and-daub, the people must have been intimidated to have so much space at their disposal. Then again, they were used to living outdoors; maybe with a roof over their heads, they actually felt confined.
Our route led straight down a broad boulevard, its surface smooth white cement. A few buildings had words painted on their walls: KEEP GOING…NO U TURN…BE PREPARED TO MERGE…the indulgent signs people write to amuse themselves in empty cities. SIGNAL YOUR TURNS…DEER CROSSING…ALL CARS MUST BE RUNNING ELECTRIC….
I didn’t translate them for Oar. Some jokes aren’t worth explaining.
Dirt
The closer we got to the center, the more dirt I saw. First it was just thin dust on nearby buildings; then bits of grit accumulated at the edge of the boulevard; then spills of grease or electrolyte darkening the pavement.
“This is a filthy place,” Oar said with self-satisfaction. “My home would never become so dirty.”
“Do you clean your home?” I asked.
“No.” Her voice was offended. “Machines attend to such matters.”
“This city has the same kind of machines. Otherwise the place would be buried in grime. The Explorers must have kicked up more mess than the systems could handle; either that or my friends have commandeered the cleaning machines for other things.” Most likely for spare parts, I thought. Someone like Jelca wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice a janitor-bot in his drive to restore a spaceship.
“So the Explorers make this place dirty?” Oar asked. “Hah! Fucking Explorers.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t use that phrase,” I told her. “You want to get along with the others, don’t you?”
“I do not know them yet,” she replied. “If they are very stupid, I may want to kick them.”
“Please, Oar; you’re my friend, and they’re my friends. It will make me sad if you pick fights.”
“I will not pick fights unless they deserve it.” Her tone of voice suggested they would deserve it.
“Oar, if you get jealous that I have other friends—”
“Festina!” shouted a voice behind me.
Jelca.
Changed
He had no hair. Wasn’t that strange? Just the bald skull I remembered, covered with the scabby patches that would grow inflamed and bleed if he tried to wear a wig.
For some reason, I had thought he’d have hair. I don’t know why—I hadn’t said, “Melaquin tech helped me so it must have helped him too.” I hadn’t thought about it logically at all; I had just assumed Jelca would have hair…that he would be dashing and handsome and muscular.
I had assumed he would be perfect.
He was not perfect; he looked gaunt and twitchy. Jelca had always been thin, but now he looked positively ravaged, as if he hadn’t eaten or slept for days. It didn’t help that he was wearing a badly-fitted long-sleeved shirt…a shimmery thing of silver fabric that probably came from the local synthesizers: something like spun glass, but a fine enough mesh that it was opaque. I doubted Jelca wore it for the sparkle—more likely it was the only cloth the synthesizers would produce—but the shirt was so glitzily out of place, it looked like voluminous silver lamé hung around the bones of an anorexic.
“Festina?” Jelca said.
“Yes.”
“You