“That there would,” the AI replied. “I recall that for years after the war one of the biggest complaints was that it had set back terraforming and recovery efforts. Not that millions had died, but that the upland gorilla had nearly been wiped out again.”
“A very human reaction,” Talbot said distractedly. He had stopped pacing and now ran his fingers through his sweat-filled hair. “And permanent. If you can trace the connection to Chansa, the Council can. If they loot the project, for whatever reason, it will kill Chansa politically. What in the hell is worth losing a Council seat?”
CHAPTER FOUR
“What in the hell is that?” Paul said as he appeared in Celine’s workshop. The woman had an insect that looked something like a wasp on the end of her fingers, at which she was petting and cooing.
The workshop was cluttered with buzzing and chittering cages. From one a lizardlike beast about the size of a human hand, with large doleful eyes and opposable thumbs, stared out at him. It hissed and scrabbled at the lock, pointing and beckoning to be let out. Others were filled with a variety of invertebrates, spiders, insects and some things so Changed as to be indecipherable. From the next room there was a continuous howling and the screech of a large cat, sounding like the cries of a dying woman.
“It’s my newest pet,” Celine answered, coaxing the insect into a cage. It was as long as her forefinger, black with red stripes on the abdomen, its wings covered in a red and black lightning-bolt pattern. “It’s something like a hornet but with the ability to digest cellulose. When released in an area with cellulose products it begins reproducing, rapidly, and reduces them in short order. It’s armed with a stinger, purely for self protection of course.”
“The Net would never allow its release,” Paul pointed out. “It would be classed as a dangerous biological and shut down instantly.”
“The Net will not allow it yet,” she replied with a thin smile.
“Nor would I,” he said, firmly. “This project is about the future of the human race, not letting monsters roam loose.”
“One woman’s monster is another woman’s pet,” Celine said serenely. “Shall I show you my demons?”
“Perhaps another time,” Paul replied. “I am… unhappy with the way the Council meeting went.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Celine replied with a smirk.
“I feel like killing Chansa,” he replied, trying to keep his temper. “If it hadn’t been for his untimely comment…”
“It would have gone exactly the same way,” Celine said, lifting out a large creature that looked like a cross between a spider and a grasshopper. It had large, springing, legs on the rear but a spiderlike foreportion with gripping mandibles and long, glittering, fangs. “There my pet, these mean people won’t keep you closed up much longer.” She turned back to the man and shook her head. “The rest of the Council is too shortsighted,” she said with a hiss. “All that they see is keeping the human breeders happy and satisfied for another pointless day. There is so much more to be had from the biosphere, but they cannot see it. Even you cannot see it. Humans are nothing more than an evolutionary blip on the map.”
“Nonetheless, the first priority is to increase the human population,” Paul said, severely.
“Yes, yes,” she replied waving her hands distractedly. “Although, I wish we could just evacuate Australia; it would make a remarkably good genetic proving ground.”
“We’ll see,” Paul replied. “After the… next meeting.”
“Indeed,” Celine replied with a smile, petting the hopper. “Soon, my pet. Soon.”
Edmund looked up from his plate of stew as Myron Raeburn stamped in through the doors of the tavern; there was a cold drizzling rain outside and as always it caused the streets to turn into a sea of mud.
Raven’s Mill had just… happened. Initially, Edmund Talbot had set off to find a place in the country, much like everyone else. His intent had been to retire from active reenacting and find a quiet place to spend his final years. However, he was enough of a reenactor to want a place where he could move about on the limited roads. At that time the primary Renn Faire in what had been the eastern North American Union was near the town of Washan, close to the Atlantis Ocean. From there a road stretched to the Apallia mountains, and over them, to reach the Io River. So he had wanted a place near the Via Apallia, but not too near. And he was enough of a paranoid that he wanted a place that was defensible. Last, it should have good water near it and a river nearby that was deep enough for boats, in case he had anything large he wanted to move.
The spot he had finally chosen was the shoulder of a mountain, just a few miles south of the Via Apallia, near where it crossed the Shenan River. There, the hills made a sheltered bowl that cut off views of both the road and the river, and mitigated flooding for that matter. There was a small, permanent stream that ran through the midst of the bowl and out a small opening in the surrounding hills. The land on the inside of the bowl, however, was flat. The spot in many ways was perfect. He had flowing water, was shielded from view and had the mountains at his back. Yet he also could venture forth with relative ease. The view had been of the small fields he had cleared and the surrounding hills. Peaceful and quiet.
Shortly after moving in, he was contacted by Myron, who was also looking for a place to settle. They had known each other for years and when Myron suggested that they be neighbors it had sounded like a fine idea. Then had come a potter friend, then another smith. Then the parties had expanded until once a year, at least, there was a sizable contingent of reenactors in the area. Then the inn down by the stream, then more roads.
Before he knew it there was a town, a major Renn Faire and all the hassles associated with both. He dealt with the management of the town but he refused to manage the Renn Faire, although he did attend. It was a decent party, for all it sometimes made him want to stuff plugs in his ears.
Lately, he had been wondering if it wasn’t time to go find a new place to dwell.
“Hello, Myron,” Tarmac McGregor said. The innkeeper, broad and overweight with a thick beard and calm, ancient eyes, set down the mug he was polishing and drew a pint. “You look a tad damp.”
“Wonderful weather,” Myron said, shaking off his cloak. The farmer was tall and slender with thin blond hair and a heavy tan. He wore period clothing with the exception of a loose white smock that was stained with mud. He took this off as well and hung it beside the cloak.
“Good for the crops,” Talbot pointed out.
“Oh yeah, great rain,” Myron agreed. “Just the right amount; it’ll put the final touches on the grain.”
Myron was the town’s sole farmer. He and his wife had met at Renn Faire and discovered a shared passion for the almost lost art of small-scale farming and horticulture. Nearly five decades before, the couple had plotted out a homestead near the growing town of Raven’s Mill and had settled down to be old-fashioned farmers. They started out with a set of farm implements, some seed and livestock. And in the last half century they had produced two children while building the farm into a successful concern.
One of the first problems that they had had to overcome was the question of market. By their third year in existence they were producing material far in excess of their needs, even if the needs were not supplied from the Net. However, at Edmund’s suggestion, they had spread the news of the availability of “real hand-grown, period foodstuffs” and shortly found that there was a tremendous demand; it turned out that there were many people who did not trust industry-farmed food and longed for a supply other than the Net. For those who truly did not trust the Net, or understood that ported material had undergone the same “unnatural” processes as replicated, there was even a small-scale and very unreliable ground transportation system.