Part 4 (2/2)
Suddenly, the accidental detail of the promise that she'd extracted nearly four years earlier, that she could use her credit account to pay for major smartsuit modifications, clicked into clearer focus. She really did have an opportunity that she must be careful not to waste. If she didn't want her parents to decide whether-or how-her appearance ought to be adjusted to take account of her increasing maturity of form, then she ought to conceive a plan of her own, and be ready to put it into action. If she wanted flowers, then she ought to decide what kind of flowers she wanted, and if she wanted birds....
Even birds, she suddenly thought, were not the limit of potential ambition. If she were to decide that she wanted dragons....
So far as Sara knew, no fas.h.i.+on designer had yet got around to engineering solid dragons that could enjoy the same symbiotic relations.h.i.+p with a person's smartsuit as the synthetic bluebirds and hummingbirds that were all the rage in the more civilized parts of north-west England, but animal and mineral decorations were not the only ones available. The easiest-and perhaps the cheapest-way to augment the display capabilities of a relatively primitive smartsuit was to use sublimate technology: images made out of vaporous substances that had enough molecular memory to form cloudy shapes in two or three dimensions, bounded by ”smokeskins”. When they lay flat on the surface of a smartsuit, they were ”astral tattoos,” but those which could take flight could reform themselves as phantom bats or owls-or even spiders, if she had taken the correct inference from Gennifer's comments on Davy Bennett's new costume.
The astral tattoos that Sara had actually seen were mostly black, formulated as the silhouettes of bats, birds or swimming fish-but images of that sort were almost exclusively worn by males. There was no reason at all why astral tattoos shouldn't be any color their wearer might desire, or any shape their wearer might desire. They might, for instance, be golden dragons-and Sara was certain that she knew where a man could be found who would be only too pleased to make that possibility an actuality: Frank Warburton, the Dragon Man.
For ten minutes or so, while she slowly savored her dessert-ca.s.sata siciliana, flavoured with three traditional fruits and three brand new products of ingenious genetic engineering-Sara solemnly considered the possibility of becoming host to a family of two-dimensional dragons, which would flow around her body, taking off from time to time to fly free like phantoms of eerie light, effortlessly upstaging any lumpen bluebirds or hummingbirds that happened to be around.
In the meantime, Father Gustave was earnestly explaining to Fathers Stephen and Aubrey and Mothers Quilla and Jolene why the as-yet-unbuilt supermetropolis of Amundsen City was the only appropriate home for the new United Nations Headquarters, with an enthusiasm that brought forth a mixture of laughter and astonishment.
”Surely, Gus,” Father Stephen said, ”even you can't actually want to live at the South Pole.”
”It won't be cold inside,” Father Gustave said, the reddening of his face uninhibited by the transparent surskin overlaying his native flesh.
”No, of course not,” said Mother Jolene. ”But think of the scenery! Even if they recreated penguins and polar bears from the gene banks....”
Sara was sure that Mother Jolene was joking, firstly because she had to know perfectly well that penguins and polar bears had lived a opposite ends of the Earth, and secondly because the Continental Engineers planned to reshape the glaciers in a ma.s.sive crown-like rim around the reclaimed region where Amundsen City was supposed to be-but Father Gustave was blus.h.i.+ng even more deeply as his frustration increased.
Whether the sight of that blush of annoyance that had anything to do with her own realization, Sara couldn't tell, but it came to her all of a sudden that it wouldn't do to be too original in her choice of sophisticated clothing. No matter what sort of promise was on the house record from four years before, she had to be careful not to overstep the mark, or the promise would simply be revoked. Politics, as Father Gustave was exceedingly fond of saying, was the art of the attainable.
Reluctantly, Sara set aside the idea of becoming a Dragon Girl, postponing further contemplation of that prospect until she was old enough to be a Dragon Lady. If she wanted to decorate her costume more elaborately now, she had to pick something that at least some of her parents would consider reasonable-which, given the const.i.tution of the household, probably meant that birds were out of the question, let alone dragons.
Flowers, on the other hand....
While Father Gustave continued his pointless lecture on the virtues of Antarctica as a ”Continent Without Nations” Sara thought about flowers, and their possibilities as bodywear.
”If you've had enough, Sara,” Mother Jolene said, breaking in on her fierce concentration, ”just put your spoon down and let the table get on with clearing itself. Don't play with your food.”
”I'm eating it,” Sara protested. ”I'm just taking my time. I was listening. I don't see why Father Gustave shouldn't want to live at the South Pole when his work's done here. It'll be new, won't it? New's good, isn't it?”
No one seemed to suspect that this was the opening of a propaganda campaign, and it wasn't just Father Gustave who was grateful for her expression of opinion. All her parents liked to see her taking an interest in their topics of discussion, especially if they were only discussing them for the benefit of her education.
”Thank you, Sara,” Father Gustave said, warmly. ”It's good to have a sensible contribution to the conversation. ”You really ought to set the child a better example, Jo.”
”If I have to take your plans for the UN seriously,” Mother Jolene retorted, ”you ought to be a little more sympathetic to my interests.”
”There's politics and politics,” Father Gustave said, impatiently. ”Gaean Lib nonsense isn't practical practical politics-it's romantic nonsense.” politics-it's romantic nonsense.”
”That's a bit steep, Gus,” Father Aubrey put in. ”I suppose you think the sixth continent is romantic nonsense too.”
”It is when people start calling it Atlantis re-risen,” Mother Maryelle said.
”I didn't,” Father Aubrey protested.
”And I didn't say that I was a Gaean Lib supporter,” Mother Jolene put in. ”What do you think of the Gaean Liberation Movement, Sara?”
”I think they're a necessary pressure group,” Sara said, quoting an earlier remark of Mother Jolene's word for word, ”but the same is true of the Continental Engineers-and in the meantime, the UN has to get on with the day-to-day running of the world.”
No one seemed to notice that the second part of this careful judgment was borrowed from Father Aubrey, or the third from Father Gustave.
”That's very sensible,” Father Gustave said. ”Very mature, for your age.”
”Well, I am nearly fourteen,” Sara said. ”I'll have my own credit account in a couple of weeks. I have to think of sensible and mature ways of using it.”
While her parents were still congratulating themselves on the success of their educational discussion, Sara finished off the ca.s.sata in two gulps so that the table could get on with the next task in its schedule-which it did with such rapidity that she could almost have suspected it of impatience. The attention she had drawn to herself wasn't entirely complimentary, though. Mother Quilla was looking at her with a suspicious and slightly critical expression.
”Yes,” Mother Quilla said, ”you are growing up, aren't you?”
Sara could almost see the images of twin scallop sh.e.l.ls forming in the mind behind Mother Quilla's contemplative gaze. Having made her impression, it was time to retreat.
”I've got homework to do,” Sara announced, brightly. ”Good night for later, in case I don't see some of you again.”
So saying, she moved swiftly away to her room, barely pausing to wonder what the five of them would talk about over coffee, now that they no longer had to give such earnest consideration to her educational needs.
CHAPTER X.
By the time the weekly house-meeting came around Sara had decided exactly what to ask for, and how to go about it. She didn't need to remind her eight parents that her fourteenth birthday was now imminent; they were almost as excited about it as she was. Nor did she have to remind them about the solemn promise that they had made four years earlier; the household's so-called artificial intelligence was slavishly dutiful about such matters of record.
There was the usual list of routine items to be sorted out. The hometree's roots had picked up yet another fungal infection, and because it was a new mutant the treatment might not be covered by the standard maintenance contract. The picture window in Father Stephen's room had developed a glitch and he thought that the replacement component ought to be bought out of the general household budget rather than coming out of his own pocket. Et cetera Et cetera, et cetera. Eventually, though, the way was clear for Sara to make her bid.
”As soon as my credit account comes into operation,” she announced, as though it were merely a matter of notifying them of something that needed no discussion, ”I'll be going into Blackburn to have some modifications made to my smartsuit. I don't need anyone to accompany me, so it shouldn't interfere with anyone else's schedule.”
”You can't go alone,” Mother Verena said, immediately-picking up, as Sara had hoped she might, on the lesser of her two claims. It was the one she was prepared to surrender, if need be.
”She has to be allowed out some time,” Father Aubrey obligingly chipped in.
”Yes,” said Mother Verena, ”but....”
”Hold on a minute,” said Father Gustave, sending Sara's opening stratagem cras.h.i.+ng to defeat. ”What modifications? Your smartsuit doesn't need any modifications, Sara.”
”Actually, I've been thinking about that myself, Gus,” Mother Quilla said. ”I've mentioned it to Maryelle, and Verena too. Sara's growing up. Whether she's allowed out on her own or not, it's only natural that she should begin thinking more carefully about her appearance.”
”She's at school all day,” Father Gustave said. ”She has to follow the dress code.”
”Her image has to follow the dress code,” Mother Quilla pointed out, with slight exasperation at Father Gustave's willful stupidity. ”Gus, even you must take note of what other children her age are wearing at weekends.”
”We never see any other children her age in Blackburn,” Father Gustave replied.
”Well, some of us go further afield than Blackburn,” Mother Verena said. ”Quilla's right-and so is Sara. This is something we need to talk about.”
<script>