Expendable - James Alan Gardner [67]
“I’m an Explorer,” I said aloud. The words had no portentous echo—they were just words, spoken as waves lapped the shore and bushes rustled in the breeze.
I touched my cheek. “I’m an Explorer,” I repeated.
As a duty, it was stupid; but as an open opportunity….
Some maudlin urge made me want to address a speech to Yarrun—an apology and a promise. But the only phrases in my mind were too banal to voice.
The sun continued to beam warmly on my skin. A gull launched itself from the top of the bluffs and I watched it soar into the cloudless sky.
Oar’s Axe
Ten minutes later, Oar’s boat slid onto the sand. She stepped out, and with rehearsed casualness, swung a gloss-silver axe onto her shoulder. It looked deadly heavy, but not metallic—perhaps plastic, perhaps ceramic. Whatever it was, I’d bet my favorite egg the blade was sharp enough to shave a balloon; a culture that could make a see-through woman could certainly produce a monofoil cutting edge.
“On our trip,” Oar announced, “we should clear trees now and then. Then we can tell the Explorers we traveled in a civilized way.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “When Jelca taught you our language, he never explained the word ‘ecology.’”
Oar Food
Before I could lecture Oar on environmentalism, the food synthesizer gave a subdued chirp. I looked at my watch: eighteen minutes since I pressed the machine’s ON button. Jelca might be lax on conservation, but he made admirably efficient gadgets.
When I opened the drawer at the bottom of the synthesizer, it contained two dozen blobs of jelly, each the size of my thumb. They came in several shades: light pink, frost green, and dull brown, with a few clear colorless ones too. I lifted a pink blob and smelled it; the fragrance was genetically fruity, like cheap candy that simply tastes red.
“What are those, Festina?” Oar asked.
“Food.”
Her nose wrinkled skeptically. “Explorer food?”
“And Oar food.”
During my three days of breakdown, Oar had fetched us both food from the big village synthesizer, so I knew what she usually ate. Most dishes had the shape of common terrestrial foods—noodles, wafers, soups—but of course, each morsel looked like glass. The jellylike output from Jelca’s synthesizer was at least translucent; but I had to admit it didn’t resemble Oar’s normal cuisine.
“Try that clear one there,” I pointed. “I’ll bet it tastes good.”
“I cannot put that in my mouth,” she objected. “It has touched the green one. It is dirty!”
“This is special food,” I said. “It doesn’t get dirty.” I took the clear blob myself, making sure it hadn’t picked up any color from adjacent blobs. “See? It’s pretty.”
“Now you’re touching it.”
“My hands are clean…and my skin color doesn’t rub off, you know that. Otherwise, you’d be smeared and smudged yourself.”
She didn’t look convinced.
“Oar,” I said, “if you don’t like food from the synthesizer, what are you going to eat? Do you want me to kill animals for you? Or rip up plants I think might be edible? Do you want to eat raw fish? Or bright red raspberries?”
Her eyes widened in horror. “I will try machine food,” she said quickly, and plucked the clear jelly from my hand. With the get-it-over-quick air of a woman taking medicine, she plopped the blob in her mouth, and swallowed without chewing…as if she was hurrying to get it down before the taste made her gag.
Seconds ticked by silently. “How was it?” I asked.
“I do not know,” she answered. “I shall wait to see if I become sick.”
Good enough, I told myself. If I could eat her food, she could probably eat mine; but let her work up to it gradually. In the meantime, the sun was bright—she could photosynthesize, like her ancestors back in the village.
“We’re ready,” I said. “Let’s head south.”
We Begin
Our climb up the bluffs proved Oar had ample strength to carry the synthesizer—with it strapped to her back, she walked as if its weight were barely there. I worried the straps might chafe her bare shoulders; but as time passed without a peep of complaint, I concluded