“Could be. Lychee was what he called the drink. Might not have been the fruit at all.”
“If it’s a PurCal product, I don’t see how it would show up here,” Lucy says. “These should all be out on Koh Angrit, under quarantine while the Environment Ministry finds ten thousand different ways to tax the thing.” She spits the pit into her palm and tosses it off the balcony into the street. “I’m seeing these everywhere. They’ve got to be local.” She reaches into the sack and takes another. “You know who might know about them, though…” She leans back and calls into the dimness of the bar. “Hagg! You still there? You awake back in there?”
At the man’s name, the others stir and try to straighten themselves, like children caught by a strict parent. Anderson forces down an instinctive chill. “I wish you hadn’t done that,” he mutters.
Otto grimaces. “I thought he died.”
“Blister rust never gets the chosen ones, don’t you know?”
Everyone stifles a laugh as a form shambles out of the gloom. Hagg’s face is flushed, and sweat speckles his face. He surveys the Phalanx solemnly. “Hello, all.” He nods his head to Lucy. “Still trafficking with these sort, then?”
Lucy shrugs. “I make do.” She nods at a chair. “Don’t just stand there. Have a drink on us. Tell us your stories.” She lights her opium pipe and draws on it as the man pulls up the chair beside her and sags into it.
Hagg is a solid man, well-fleshed. Not for the first time, Anderson thinks how interesting it is that Grahamite priests, of all their flock, are always the ones whose waistlines overflow their niche. Hagg waves for whiskey, and surprises everyone when a waiter appears at his elbow almost immediately.
“No ice,” the waiter says on arrival.
“No, no ice. Of course not.” Hagg shakes his head emphatically. “Don’t want the damn calories spent, anyway.”
When the waiter returns, Hagg takes the drink and downs it instantly, then sends the waiter back for a second. “It’s good to be back in from the countryside,” he says. “You start missing the pleasures of civilization.” He toasts them all with his second glass and downs it as well.
“How far out were you?” Lucy asks around the pipe clamped in her teeth. She’s starting to look a little glassy from the burning tar.
“Near the old border with Burma, Three Pagodas pass.” He looks sourly at them all as if they are guilty of the sins he researches. “Looking into ivory beetle spread.”
“Not safe up there, I heard.” Otto says. “Who’s the jao por?”
“A man named Chanarong. And he was no trouble at all. Far easier to work with him than the Dung Lord or any of the small jao por in the city. Not all of the godfathers are so focused on profits and power.” Hagg looks back pointedly. “For those of us who aren’t interested in pillaging the Kingdom of coal or jade or opium, the countryside is safe enough.” He shrugs. “In any case, I was invited by Phra Kritipong to visit his monastery. To observe the changes in ivory beetle behavior.” He shakes is head. “The devastation is extraordinary. Whole forests with not a leaf on them. Kudzu, and nothing else. The entire overstory is gone, timber fallen everywhere.”
Otto looks interested. “Anything salvageable?”
Lucy gives him a look of disgust. “It’s ivory beetle, you idiot. No one around here wants that.”
Anderson asks, “You say the monastery invited you up? Even though you’re a Grahamite?”
“Phra Kritipong is enlightened enough to know that neither Jesus Christ nor the Niche Teachings are anathema to his kind. Buddhist and Grahamite values overlap in many areas. Noah and the martyr Phra Seub are entirely complementary figures.”
Anderson stifles a laugh. “If your monk saw how Grahamites operate back home, he might see it differently.”
Hagg looks offended. “I am not some preacher of field burnings. I am a scientist.”
“Didn’t mean any offense.” Anderson pulls out a ngaw, offers it to Hagg. “This might interest you. We just found them in the market.”
Hagg eyes the ngaw, surprised. “The market? Which one?”
“All over,” Lucy supplies.
“They showed up while you were gone,” Anderson says. “Try it, they’re not bad.”
Hagg takes the fruit, studying it closely. “Extraordinary.”
“You know what they are?” Otto asks.
Anderson peels another fruit for himself, but even as he does, he listens closely. He would never directly ask the question of a Grahamite, but he’s perfectly willing to let others do the work.
“Quoile thought it was a leechee,” Lucy says. “Is he right?”
“No, not a lychee. That’s for certain.” Hagg turns it in his hand. “It looks like it could be something the old texts called a rambutan.” Hagg is thoughtful. “Though, if I recall correctly, they’re somewhat related.”
“Rambootan?” Anderson keeps his expression friendly and neutral. “That’s a funny name. The Thais all call them ngaw.”
Hagg eats the fruit, spits the fat pit into his palm. Examines the black seed, wet with his saliva. “I wonder if it will breed true.”
“You could put it in a flower pot and find out.”
Hagg gives him an irritated look. “If it doesn’t come from a calorie company, it will breed. The Thais don’t make sterile generips.”
Anderson laughs. “I didn’t think the calorie companies made tropical fruits.”
“They make pineapples.”
“Right. Forgot.” Anderson waits. “How do you know so much about fruits?”
“I studied biosystems and ecology at Alabama New University.”
“That’s your Grahamite college, right? I thought all you studied was how to start a field burning.”
The others suck in their breath at the provocation, but Hagg just looks back coldly. “Don’t bait me. I’m not that sort. If we’re ever going to restore Eden, it will take the knowledge of ages to accomplish it. Before I came over, I spent a year immersed in Pre-Contraction Southeast Asian Ecosystems.” He reaches across and takes another fruit. “This must gall the calorie companies.”
Lucy fumbles for another fruit. “You think we could fill a clipper ship with these and send them back across the water? You know, play calorie company in reverse? People would pay a fortune for them, I’ll bet. New flavor and all? Sell it as a luxury.”
Otto shakes his head. “You’d have to convince them it’s not blister-rust tainted; the red skin will make people nervous.”
Hagg nods agreement. “It’s a route best not pursued.”
“But the calorie companies do it.” Lucy points out. “They ship seeds and food wherever they want. They’re global. Why shouldn’t we try the same?”
“Because it goes against all the Niche Teachings,” Hagg says gently. “The calorie companies have already earned their place in hell. There’s no reason you should be eager to join them.”
Anderson laughs. “Come on, Hagg. you can’t seriously be against a little entrepreneurial spirit. Lucy’s on to something. We could even put your face on the side of the crates.” He makes a sign of Grahamite blessing. “You know, approved by the Holy Church and all that. Safe as SoyPRO.” He grins. “What do you think of that?”
“I would never participate in such blasphemy.” Hagg scowls. “Food should come from the place of its origin, and stay there. It shouldn’t spend its time crisscrossing the globe for the sake of profit. We went down that path once, and it brought us to ruin.”
“More Niche Teachings.” Anderson peels another fruit. “There must be a niche for money somewhere in Grahamite orthodoxy. Your cardinals are fat enough.”
“The teachings are sound, even if the flock strays.” Hagg stands abruptly. “Thank you for the company.” He frowns at Anderson, but reaches across the table and grabs one more fruit before stalking away.