This time Ovuha is waiting for her in Penumbra’s lobby, a larger, airier space than the interview cell. A different warden and two guard drones flank her. They’ve put Ovuha in slightly less ugly clothes, though still gray, and there is a patch of inflamed skin on her left shoulder. The site where the tracker went in, there to monitor everything she does for her probationary period. Where she goes, what she eats, how many hours a night she sleeps. There the tracker will remain for the next six to twelve months.
“You have been granted a stipend, by the grace of Samsara,” Suzhen says as they leave Penumbra behind, and names the figure.
Ovuha looks over her shoulder, once, at the halfway house. The prison. Her expression is bland and no frisson of emotion disturbs it, no relief as having been liberated, no seizing terror at knowing she might be sent back here any time. “It must be very generous, though I don’t know enough what that’d buy. We don’t get updates on exchange rates, out there.”
It is not in fact generous, and far below any citizen’s guaranteed income. “Housing will be provided for you. The stipend will cover power, food, utilities. I’ll help you set up an account—it’ll be linked to mine, and I’ll be able to see all your transactions so keep that in mind—and after that, we should get you certified for any skills you have got. The sooner we can get you employed, the better.”
Her charge looks out the window as the taxi lifts off; she doesn’t seem awestruck or even impressed by the architecture of Gweilan District, the concentric circles that make up its center, the petal-thoroughfares that radiate outward. Every curve and circumference have been accounted for, the interaction of this spiral building with the slant of that walkway. Windows are angled to catch and hold the sunray so that every skyscraper has the fire of black opals. Each city has its own gemstone, its own language of elegance. Ovuha turns back to Suzhen. “You’re very brisk and efficient.”
“I’m a bureaucrat.”
At this Ovuha laughs, a low thrum. “Not the first quality one associates with bureaucrats, efficiency.”
“I didn’t imagine bureaucrats were much in evidence in the colonies.”
A strange expression passes over Ovuha’s features. “The colonies. I’m still not used to them being called that. We call them countries, if we call them anything. And anywhere there is human society there is bureaucracy. We create rules, and rules convolute, and there must be a steward to make sense of them.”
She knows, of course, that they don’t call themselves colonies. Those barren, broken worlds. The settlements that abide under heavy shielding, insulated against killing gases and lethal organisms, or rotting stations orbiting a dead planet. Terraforming is an ancient dream, as extinct as humanity’s predecessors. Suzhen does not apologize or correct herself over the colonies. “Your skillsets, then. Much of what you can do, we automate on Anatta. Some of your technical expertise might transfer well here, pending certification. You’ve got skill with heavy machinery and—cartography and linguistics?” A surprise, but the colonies are not without their stratification, their fine education. “Those are interesting, and could have academic uses; your contribution potential is good there. Until we can come to something better, you could look into service work. Pricier establishments use human staff. Demanding but the money’s fair, I hear, as long as you pass the training. I’ll put together a list of options and we’ll work through them together.”
Ovuha remains quiet as they enter the commercial block, a series of spheres nested against one another, the shops clinging to the inside of each sphere. Advertisements from confectioners and ateliers pulsate on the corridors, steps of concourse lighting up and inviting shoppers to sample the latest in fashion, perfume, tableware. Fragrances pursue them in clouds, cinnamon and passionfruit, spiced grape and peach wine. Those with wealth wear it on their hair, curls of circuitry and synthetic ivory, tortoiseshell notations dangling from their ears. Some wear it more subtly, in luster lining the hollows of throat or temples, tasteful but muted body mods—scales strategically scattered, nacreous hairline, void-pearl earlobes.
Suzhen watches Ovuha observe; once more there is a lack. Neither awe nor any admission that this is novel, full of extravagance she could never imagine where she came from. She wonders, faintly, if Ovuha would have reacted differently if they’d gone to one of the utilitarian outlets. Extruded products, automaton service. It is not that she means to impress her charge—or she does, she concedes to herself, the vicious part that wants to witness Ovuha’s brittleness, evidence that this person is more than her perfect candidate score, her unshakable poise.
They slip into a boutique. The clothes come in preconfigured sets, though for a little extra, modular pieces can be purchased and assembled into custom outfits. An attendant greets them, and if Ovuha’s status is obvious to them—the inmate’s rags—they pass no remark. Once Suzhen has established that Ovuha is the one in need of clothes, the attendant turns one of the mannequins into an image of Ovuha. Inevitably it is more glamorous than the real thing, looking better-fed and groomed, pores smoothed over by cosmetics. A coquettish tilt of the head, fingertips coyly touching the chin, a red smile that shows perfect teeth. Ovuha stares at the mannequin and says to Suzhen in a low voice, “Should I be able to afford this?”
“It’ll come out of my salary, so yes. Tell them you need a couple professional outfits.”
Ovuha gives her a startled look, but the attendant is already pulling her away to take measurements. They leave with pleated high-collared shirts, jackets with slashed sleeves and titanium thread, angular trousers. Ovuha runs her hand down the fabric, touching lightly, in something that at last resembles wonder.
They eat on the observation deck, in a restaurant where each table has its own partition and privacy filter. The table is smoky quartz and the window gives a clear, uninterrupted view of Samsara’s order: the climate grid high overhead, yielding slow rain. A city crow perches on the ledge outside, seeking shelter. Ovuha cants toward it, watching it with interest, meeting its black-pearl gaze. “Birds have perfect parallax vision,” she says, as though it is the beginning or continuation of a conversation, but she stops there.
The food arrives. A pot of chrysanthemum tea for them both. Suzhen’s pan-fried dumplings, stuffed with chives and meat. Ovuha’s noodle soup, wiry yellow coils in thick broth, dusted in spring onion and shredded pork. Good comfort food, Suzhen would say, but also the cheapest dish on the menu, meant to cost Suzhen as little as possible. Ovuha savors each spoonful, sipping the broth quietly but deliberately; she is making every mouthful last, inhaling the steam, letting the noodle sit on her tongue.
(Suzhen remembers this: the first taste of real food after exiting a halfway house. A steamed bun. Even now that memory remains in total clarity, the soft texture of the dough, the rich sweetness of the lotus-seed paste, the punch of salt in the yolk. She wept as she ate.)
Over dessert—she leaves Ovuha the lion’s share of the steamed cake—she opens a remote link to configure Ovuha’s account for social, financial, and security uses. Because Ovuha has no active neural link at all, the tracker being the only online component on her, she will need an external device. Suzhen opens the kit that’s standard-issue for a potentiate, takes out the slim portable and synchronizes it. She hands this to Ovuha. “This is worn on the wrist. You won’t need help learning to use this, I expect.”
“I do need to learn a great many things, officer. Only I do not wish to impose so much on you, over and over.” Ovuha does not leave crumbs. There is refinement to the motion of her fingers, even in handling food. Those tapered, callused fingers which belong to a laborer, a technician.