Stations of the Tide - Michael Swanwick [75]
“Rioting in the Fan,” one said. “That’s the part of Port Richmond just below the falls. Evacuation authority caught a kid torching a warehouse and beat him to death.”
“It’s disgusting,” said another. “They’re behaving just like animals. Worse than animals, because they’re enjoying it.”
“Thing is, people have been coming down from the Piedmont to join in. Adolescents, especially—it’s kind of a rite of passage for them. They’ve shut down the incline to keep them out.”
“They should all be whipped. It comes from living on a planet, away from the constraints of civilization.”
Another surrogate spoke up. “Oh, I think there’s a touch of the savage in us all. If I were a few years younger, I’d be down there myself.”
“Sure you would.”
A glint of light caught the bureaucrat’s eye. A door opening in the storeroom at the center of the bar. There was a flashing, near-subliminal glimpse of a narrow white face before the door closed again. It was more an impression than anything else, but enough that he decided to wait and watch to see if it would happen again.
He stood very still for a long time. Again the door opened, and a furtive face peeked out. Yes! It was a woman. Someone small, slender, mouselike.
Someone he knew.
Interesting. The bureaucrat made a long, careful circuit of the floor. There were two doors to the storeroom, situated opposite each other. It would take only an instant to slip under the bar and within. He returned to his starting place and found a chair sheltered by a cascade of tentacle vines.
* * *
Hours passed. The televisions were an impressionistic wheel of icebergs calfing, canvas cities for the cattleboat people, lingering shots of precataclysmic icecaps. He did not mind the wait. At long intervals, yet regular as clockwork, the door would open and that pinched white face peer out to scan the crowd before it closed again. She was definitely waiting for someone.
Finally a newcomer sat down at the bar, laying down a handful of flowers on the countertop before him. Crushed kelpies and polychromes, plucked from the weeds outside. He picked up an invisible napkin and turned it over. Then he ran his hands under the edge of the bar, as if searching for something hidden. When the bartender gave him a drink, he held the nonexistent glass high so he could examine its underside.
The bureaucrat knew those gestures.
Soon the storeroom door opened again. The woman’s face appeared, pale in the gloom. She saw the newcomer, nodded, and raised a finger: just a minute. The door closed.
Smoothly the bureaucrat strolled to the far side of the bar, and ducked under. A bartender device moved toward him and he held up his census bracelet. Green, exempt. It turned away, and he stepped into the storeroom.
The single bare light hurt his eyes after the dim bar. Tier upon tier of empty shelves covered the walls. The woman was up on tiptoes lowering a box. He took her arm.
“Hello, Esme.”
With a squeak of indrawn breath she whirled. The box banged against a shelf. She pulled away from him, at the same time awkwardly trying to keep from dropping the package. He did not let go. “How’s your mother?”
“You mustn’t—”
“Still alive, eh?” There was panic in those tiny, dark eyes. The bureaucrat felt that if he tightened his grip ever so slightly, bones would splinter. “That’s how Gregorian got you running errands for him, isn’t it? He promised to resolve matters for you. Say yes.” He shook her, and she nodded. “Speak up! I can have you arrested if I want. Gregorian is using you as a courier, right?”
He pushed forward, trapping her between his bulk and the shelves. He could feel her heart beating. “Yes.”
“He gave you this box?”
“Yes.”
“Who are you supposed to give it to?”
“The man—the man at the bar. Gregorian said he’d bring flowers.”
“What else?”
“Nothing. He said that if the man had any questions, I should tell him that the