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Days since emigration: 25
Gurathin gripped the sink and glared at the tiled wall. There wasn’t a mirror in his new apartment. There weren’t a lot of mirrors on Preservation. That was one of the first things Gurathin noticed. He had to make due with staring down his own feed presence through his augments. In it, his face was a picture of panic.
Get a grip, he told the face. You’re going to go down there and get it over with. You don’t have a choice, you’re out of food and you can't hide in here forever. You’ve done it before and you can do it now. Suck it up.
He turned and picked up his basket. He spent a small fortune on it back in the C.R., and it was most certainly decorative, the sort of thing his great grandfather might have used before RoMaro took over, a time Gurathin never knew. It was one of the few things he managed to bring with him, and he secretly loved it. It was handmade, so it made him look the part. He really needed to look the part for market day.
He checked the hundredth time that his wallet was still in his jacket, squeezed the straps of the basket with white knuckles, then hurried out. Cold, wet air filled his lungs but he suppressed a shiver, told himself he did not need a new jacket when this synthetic one worked fine, never mind that it was on average nearly fifty degrees colder here than his home planet. Anyway, the market was just around the corner.
A big empty meadow, where Gurathin could see the footprint for a bodega or a popular pharmacy chain back home, lay fallow six days of the week. One the seventh colorful tents popped up right among the uncut grass and around the bushes, for businesses to sell their consumables. Food, hygiene products, crafts. There were people braiding hair and playing music, sometimes a theatrical performance. For Gurathin, used to 24-hour marts with bright light and video surveillance and maybe a radio playing if you were lucky, it was all a bit much.
Okay, it was a lot. Way too much. But it was the only way to get food on this forsaken planet (there were supposedly restaurants, but he hadn’t found one). So…here he was. Outside, in air more frozen than fresh, getting his food from a glorified pop-up. There was something wrong about getting his food outside. Those clouds hanging above the treetops looked like rain.
You wanted to be here, he told himself sternly. It’s better than the company cafeteria.
He lined up a tent selling baked goods, with someone he’d never seen before behind the table. Good. That should make things easier. He took a breath that was only a little shaky, then plastered on his best customer service smile and walked up.
“Good morning,” he said, careful to erase his accent, “Do you take card?” He always tried to check first. He then clarified, “Currency card,” because who knew what other kinds of cards might be in their insane barter system. He had picked a part of Preservation not often frequented by refugees, after all—all the better to disappear and never be heard from again. If he didn’t starve to death because he couldn’t figure out this primitive economy.
“Hello! Good morning!” She was short and much better at smiling than him.
He just held up his card.
“Take a look,” she said, “I’ll see what I can do!”
Gurathin suppressed a cringe. Why did they always say that? Couldn’t they just tell him what they charged? He looked while he worked up the courage to speak again. He soon found a white loaf, which among all the other outlandish baked goods(?) at least looked familiar.
“I don’t have any barter,” he tried. “Just card.” He got it out to illustrate.
Her expression softened. “What company?”
He read the name off the card, like they hadn’t owned him for thirty years. “RoMaro?”
“Let me see.” She pulled out a folder—an actual folder, with paper!—and started hunting through it. Gurathin let himself relax before she said, “Refugee?”
He nodded. His smile was starting to hurt his face.
“How long have you been out?” She said it like he’d been in prison, not just on a corporate planet.
“Not long.”
“Don’t worry—it gets easier after the first week.”
Gurathin had been on Preservation for a month, actually. He didn’t mention it. “Just this,” he gestured to the white loaf, careful not to touch.
“Sure! How about… twenty? Is that fair?”
The RoMaro economy was such that a loaf that size set you back at least fifty. He nodded and handed over the card before quickly scooping the bread into his pack.
“Oh, that’s a lovely basket!--” she started, but Gurathin just nodded, smile gone, and left.
He should have just left with that—a loaf this size could last him almost a week, he was sure of it. If not, maybe he’d figure out where all the restaurants were hiding. But he happened to look over and saw somone put out a sign for ‘imports’ in front of a tent stuffed with garishly-bright boxes and cans. Now, that was more like it.
He wandered over, trying not to feel too nostalgic about some of the retro packaging. It was all still the same low-quality stuff he ate back of RoMaro…but at least it was familiar. He lingered over the powdered packages of sweeteners that turned your tongue black, brain buzzing for the refined sugars—but he dutifully chose a few bags of dried crickets with the hot limon flavorant. He needed the protein and it was the closest thing to meat he’d seen on Preservation yet. The man seemed happy to be rid of them, until Gurathin pulled out his card to pay.
“How do you think I got this stuff? No, no,” the man waved away his card. “No cards. I’ll take that bread, though.”
Gurathin looked at the bread sticking out of his basket. But, well, that stand took his card, he could probably get another one. He needed to start adjusting to this economic system sooner or later.
He handed over the bread and put the bags of crickets in his basket.
“Is there a?—” he started to ask but the man ignored him now to get into some kind of debate with another customer over the legality of the artificial sweeteners. Gurathin decided a receipt probably wasn’t necessary and returned to the first booth.
No more white bread.
“I don’t make more than a couple loaves,” she said in apology, “I think you’re the first refugee we’ve had in a while.” She looked over her wares before she offered one. “How about this?”
It was wide and flat and had unidentifiable dried stuff on it. He must have made a face, or hesitated too long.
“It’s got vitamins! You know we don’t fortify the flour here, right? Most artificial food enhancmenets aren’t really up to our health codes.”
Gurathin blinked.
“Check out the fruit stand,” she said with a smile. “Wouldn’t want you to die of scurvy. Oh—” She grabbed a loaf that was the color of mud and dotted with little black wrinkled things, “Would you give this to the owner, and bring back some plums? I’ve been meaning to get over there.”
He must have looked completely lost.
“Just say ‘plums,’ they’ll know. Maybe he’ll give you a better deal than he gives me!”
Gurathin wasn’t sure how, clearly this perrson was more friendly than he’d ever be. He followed where she pointed to the busiest tent in the market and hesitated. Oh, he dealt with crowds all the time, just never by choice. Though maybe making sure he didn’t get some horrible vitamin deficiency meant it was necessary. And she had been kind to him. It wasn’t any more a bother than just buying his own things. So he nodded and took the bread with him, watching for an opening. Everyone seemed to be in line at once, the people behind the tables passing items around between customers seemingly at random. The customers were passing items, too. There was only one market on RoMaro and it was the stock market, and it actually looked a lot like that (albeit with fewer suits and longer hair).
He let his augments take over as he watched the exchange of items, developing an algorithm that took in estimated exchange rates of items, tagged those items under various categories, and assigned a real-time value based on supply and demand of a constantly shifting consumer and supplier base. Then he let it predict future prices, or at least skew the prices of his goods slightly in his favor.
Then he put on his customer service smile and dove in.
Ten minutes later he returned to the bread tent with two filled sandwiches, a melon with a small bruise on it, a small bag of grain and plenty of plums for them both. He tried not to look too proud of himself as he unloaded his dividends on the astonished merchant.
“Well, you got the hang of that quick!” She turned and handed him something wrapped in paper from one of her tables. It looked a bit like a cookie, except bigger and fluffier. The kind of thing managers carried around with them, mostly as props to flaunt their wealth. It smelled divine.
“Consider it payment,” she said, which was probably fair, he had gotten her a lot more plums than she asked for. He took a small bite and found himself ripped back to the Rim, eating spun sugar as a treat.
“We don’t get a lot of refined sugar here,” she admitted with a smirk. “But when it’s prepared right, you can’t resist!”
The cookie was already gone. He nodded at her, mouth full, more than a little embarrassed. “Can I get a few more? For barter.”
“Sure!” she laughed, and as he paid for them with his card he thought about other data to feed into his algorithm—weather patterns, political events. If he tuned it just right by next week he’d earn a tidy profit.
That thought stopped him in his tracks. He had a job on Preservation already. Even though he saw barely any hard currency from it, he was employed and he had paperwork to prove it. And he just took payment from some random person, like a freelancer. Which meant--oh shit, he was moonlighting. Creating conflict of interest, at the very least. On RoMaro that meant unpaid overtime, detained labor, contract inflation, a permanent record…
He deleted his market-gaming algorithm and purged his cache. He practically fled the scene as he looked around for security, heart pounding. But there was no one watching him. The cookie churned in his stomach. The bread merchant probably wouldn’t tell—she’d get in trouble too, right? And it wasn’t like they generated a paper trail here… he looked around for cameras, maybe the one in the building over caught what happened?...
He was looking back over his shoulder so he didn’t see the hanging basket overflowing with piles of massive vines until he was tangled up in it.
“Whoa hey!” Someone rushed over to help him. “Sorry, really should figure out a better place to hang this—it really likes getting up-close and personal—just hold still—”
Gurathin stopped struggling, and then the leaves parted and he was looking at the most gorgeous person he’d ever seen. Of course he recognized the face—he’d been here a month and the most beautiful person in the universe doesn’t go unnoticed for long. He wore a ratty wide-brimmed straw hat and his muscular forearms were on full display as they carefully unwrapped vines from Gurathin’s shoulders. He had stubble and windburnt cheeks. He smelled like the earth back on RoMaro just before a rain.
“I’m really sorry,” he said, with a smile that was far from customer service—he looked genuinely pleased to be fishing Gurathin out of this vegetal monstrosity. He picked a leaf out of Gurathin’s hair. “Are you okay?”
Well, Gurathin couldn’t stand there being detangled by beautiful people all day. “Yeah. Yeah.” He managed to finish extricating himself on his own, only to find himself surrounded by dozens more plants, each lit with its own entourage of tiny lamps. It was like little islands of light against the dark backdrop of the gloomy sky outside. Gurathin felt as if he’d just stumbled into some kind of fairy land.
“I promise that’s the only man-eating variety,” the stranger said with a laugh. “Everything else is really chill. I don’t sell anything too challenging!”
Gurathin blinked. “You—sell these?” Gurathin had been preparing for an entry fee, the plant just some clever ruse to trick customers out of money. Ordinary people couldn’t just buy plants.
“Yep! Mostly vegetables and flowers, a few houseplants since we’re in one of the higher zones. Everything’s acclimated to the region, grown at the university farm. Anything I can help you find?”
Gurathin stopped trying to wrap his head around this new Preservation oddity. “No. Thank you.”
“I guess this is your first time at the market,” the stranger said. “How are you liking it?”
Gurathin was reminded that Preservation did not have mirrors, that had to be the only reason they were talking. “It’s fine.”
The stranger finally took the hint. “Alright, well, let me know if you find something you like.”
After the incident with the vine, the only thing Gurathin wanted to find was the quickest way back to his apartment. He made for the nearest exit, nearly flinched at a crack of thunder, and was met with a literal wall of water just before he stepped out. Merchants and customers fled for the nearest tents.
“Don’t worry, it never lasts long,” the man said, as Gurathin turned back around. Apparently he knew how to take a customer’s failed retreat completely in stride. “My name’s Ratthi, what’s yours?”
Gurathin wondered if he should risk the rain, torrential though it was, until he remembered most of his purchases were wrapped in renewable, impractical paper.
Fine.
“Gurathin,” he said.
“That’s a Malinal name!” He took an interface from his shirt pocket, one of the few Gurathin had seen on Preservation, and put it on.
“It’s called RoMaro now,” Gurathin corrected.
“Right, yeah. Gurathin… that’s the standardization of ‘Quahtli’?” He said it with perfect pronunciation.
“...By someone’s standard, I suppose.” Gurathin felt light-headed. But no instructors or supervisors rained almighty terror on them from above. His forefathers (that he never knew) did not drag him into the earth for sharing his name, like his mother told him when he was small.
“We try to use original names here,” Ratthi said, looking particularly proud of himself.
“It’s Gurathin,” Gurathin said, firmly.
“Oh. Right, no problem.” Ratthi’s cheer barely flickered. “That’s really cool! A group of us described some of your grassland species on a trip last year…”
Last year Gurathin was six floors underground doing R&D in construct cognition. He was not aware that RoMaro—Malinal— had grasslands. They probably belonged to someone in upper management.
Ratthi was still talking. “…But it was all that was left up for bid—I’m usually better in montane systems, grasses are a nightmare to key out!”
Gurathin, who saw nothing of his own planet besides the city where he’d been sold as part of a debt relief program, said nothing.
“But everything here is all identified, cultivated for the region…” Gurathin’s silence was apparently an invitation because Ratthi just… kept talking. He started by explaining how he keyed out some tricky plants nestled in a display case, then lectured on terrarium design, then waxed philosophical on plant cognition. Suddenly Gurathin found himself following Ratthi around the tent as he received his own personal tour. He didn’t even notice the rain stop. It wasn’t like he needed to be anywhere else, it was the weekend and what did he have to look forward to at home but an empty apartment? Anyway, this Ratthi’s enthusiasm was catching. He never saw anyone, not even managers, so eager about their jobs back on RoMaro.
The rain didn’t last long, at least it didn’t seem to. Gurathin checked the chronometer in his augments and thought there had to be a glitch, but he’d spent a full hour in the tent.
“…I’ve actually got some seedlings started from that RoMaro survey. I seriously didn’t expect any of them to germinate. Look at this!”
Ratthi turned and produced a tray of mulchy fibers, into which had been nestled a rainbow of plump rosettes. Gurathin had a vague memory from his youth of a field trip to a prominent manager’s estate. It was the first time Gurathin saw anything like a proper garden, much less wildlife on any kind of large scale. Plants like these lined the walkway up to the mansion, only about a hundred times the size. Though to call these merely seedlings was a massive understatement. They looked like living jewels.
“Do you take card?” He really should buy something after loitering for as long as he had. Besides, he hadn’t indulged in anything since he arrived, perhaps just one wouldn’t be too expensive? Professional salesmen got more out of him with less attention.
Ratthi grinned at him, then set the entire tray into his hands. “Take it.”
“How much?” Yes, better salesmen tried that trick on him before, he wasn’t going to agree to a number he didn’t know up-front
“Nothing,” Ratthi laughed. “You can have them! The whole tray. I mean, you’ll probably take better care of them than I would—I’ve got too many projects going on, maybe you can raise these up and start your own production!”
Gurathin shook his head. “I have a job.”
“So? I basically do this on the side, too.”
…Ah. Of course moonlighting wasn’t illegal here. Probably whatever Ratthi did for his ‘job’ wasn’t technically illegal either. He should have known a wild place like Preservation would be full of fucking mobsters. No wonder they put the most attractive man in Preservation on this: easier to lure people in. How could he be so stupid?
“Never mind.” Gurathin set the tray down. “I can’t.”
“But it’s a gift!” Ratthi protested, as Gurathin turned and left.
He kept his head down, ignoring the rest of the stalls, clutching his basket in case anyone tried to pickpocket him. In his haste he stepped through a large puddle, reflecting a ghastly image of his face back at him before his boot came down and he was soaked up to his knees. He practically fled after that, and slammed the door of his apartment shut, did up every lock. It took a second for him to catch his breath, then he let the basket sag to the floor and rubbed his face with a groan. He should have just stuck with the damn bread. He never should have left RoMaro. He didn’t belong here.
A loud knock on the door behind him made him jump.
“…Gurathin?” Ratthi’s voice filtered through the wood.
Damn it. But he probably saw the candle Gurathin lit in the window. “Go away.”
“What’s your deal, man?” he didn’t sound mad, just curious.
Gurathin scrunched his eyes shut. I don’t want to owe you anything.”
“Why not?”
Why not. “It starts with gifts, then you ask me to do you a favor. Next thing I know I’m doctoring records for you or driving a getaway car on a heist.”
“…Why in Preservation would I ask you to do any of that?”
“Why in Preservation would you give me something for free?” Gurathin shot back. “Nothing’s free. You can try your act on someone else, I’m not falling for it.”
He heard something like a sigh. “Fine. I’m just going to leave them out here, then,” Ratthi said with surprising coldness.
“I’ll cite you for littering,” Gurahtin said, just as cold.
“They’re not hardened off, so they’ll probably die overnight.” He heard the tray settle on the stoop. “Enjoy listening to them suffer.”
“What?—" This was so absurd that Gurathin opened the door, forgetting that he’d installed a chain lock that only let it open a few inches. Outside, Ratthi’s expression wasn’t triumphant so much as annoyed.
“Well?” Ratthi pushed the tray toward him with a toe. Gurathin made the mistake of looking down at it, then meeting Ratthi’s gaze. His eyes were dark and all-too trustworthy, like a puppy.
“…I want a gift receipt,” Gurathin decided.
“They make receipts for gifts?” Ratthi asked, but Gurathin didn’t clarify, so he rolled his eyes. “Sure. Fine.”
Gurathin shut the door, undid the chain lock, then opened the door fully and let him inside.
If Ratthi was a thug looking to steal something he picked the wrong mark. Gurathin was forced to note that aside from the reasonably-priced chair, the display surface that came with the apartment, and his market basket, there was nothing else to take. His toolkit was hidden behind a brick accessible only through the fireplace. His clothes were polyfiber and had no value. Gurathin felt himself reddening. He’d never had someone in his personal quarters before. He’d never been in someone’s personal quarters.
Ratthi didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary, though. He just made a B-line for the window, shouting, “Oh, you have a garden window!” and sticking his head inside it. “Oh, and that view!” He turned to Gurathin and beamed. “I knew I was leaving these little ones in the right hands.”
“I’ll get you a tablet,” Gurathin muttered. The display surface was old enough that it needed one.
“I’ve actually got a receipt book.” Ratthi unearthed an ancient little notepad, made of triplicate paper with attached pen. When Gurathin stared at it he said, “I’m a little old school. Arada and I went in on a two-pack—she runs the bread stall, actually—”
“The paper’s probably worth more than this transaction,” Gurathin admitted, reluctantly. He sort of really did want a receipt now—he never owned any real paper.
“Oh, no, you’re right. I should write you a receipt. I mean, you’re the first refugee from the Rim that I’ve ever met, I don’t want to mess this up!”
He leaned on the kitchenette counter and flipped to a new page. Gurathin watched him, in case he tried to steal his dried crickets.
“I’m not a refugee,” Gurathin said.
“Is ‘corporate’ better?”
“’Refugee’ implies I’m running from something. I just—left.”
“I hear leaving’s not that easy,” Ratthi said. Though he frowned down at the receipt book Gurathin had the feeling he wasn’t paying it the slightest attention. “How did you get out?”
“Nice try.”
Ratthi smirked. “Ooph, can’t blame a guy for trying. Have you seen The Rise and Fall of Sanctuary Moon? One of the characters is just, this whole—” he gestured to Gurathin and the sparse room, then shrugged, “— I thought they were making it up.” He waited. “Really? Nothing?”
Gurathin picked at a fingernail. “It’s ‘Gurathin’ with an I. You hereby relinquish any stake or claim to the itemized list, no future goods or services to be exchanged, or any debt traced back to the recipient, in perpetuity.”
Ratthi started scribbling. “Should I get my solicitor to look this over?”
“If you have one on staff, it couldn’t…” Gurathin started, before he saw Ratthi’s twinkling eyes. He folded his arms and tried not to blush again.
“Sorry, sorry. I’ll stop.” Ratthi tapped the pen on the side of the receipt book. “Seriously, though—people don’t give each other gifts in the Rim? What about birthdays? Or anniversaries? ”
“You get assigned a birthday that matches your age class, in the company nursery,” Gurathin explained, then wanted to kick himself. He didn’t owe this guy any explanation.
Ratthi persisted. “What day is it? Your birthday?”
No one showed genuine interest like a Preservationist. “…Last month. The fourteenth.” With a thousand nursery-mates with the same birthday it was hardly a secret. “Look, it’s nothing personal. I just don’t want to owe anything. To anyone.”
“That’s a shame,” Ratthi replied. “Commitment is one of the great joys of life.” Gurathin only barely suppressed a snort, and Ratthi actually glared. “I mean, it’s why you got this place for free, right?”
…Clearly Gurathin needed to brush up on his Preservation history. He almost even believed Ratthi, for a second. But commitment in Gurathin’s mind was too much like ‘contract.’ No, he’d fled the Rim for a reason. He’d live out his life free of any- any entanglements.
“I can get you some stuff from the university, when they need to be potted up,” Ratthi said. “For barter, of course.” He tore off Gurathin’s copy of the receipt and handed it over.
Gurathin took the square of paper and held it with both hands. “…Thank you.”
Ratthi grinned. “Come over around dinner sometime. I’ll show you Sanctuary Moon. I’d let you borrow my copies, but I’ve got a bigger display surface.”
Ratthi winked at him. Or it was a trick of the light. Gurathin replayed it four times on his augments but couldn’t be sure.
He examined the receipt as Ratthi headed out the door. It was more or less in order, though the handwriting could be neater…
…And at the bottom, a little drawing of a potted plant proclaimed, ‘Happy birthday!’ Which probably rendered the receipt null and void, so this whole charade was useless.
He must have laughed, because Ratthi turned back to him in the doorway. “See you next market day?” Oh, Ratthi had him, and the bastard knew it.
“…Only if you need a favor,” Gurathin managed. He crumpled up the receipt and dropped it.
Ratthi snorted. “If I ever need help moving a body, I know where to find you.” He tapped the rim of his hat—Gurathin gripped the counter behind him to keep from going weak in the knees—and left.
Gurathin waited until he’d locked the doors, and put the plants away in the ‘garden window’, before he retrieved the receipt and smoothed it out. In a moment it was tucked in the fireplace hiding spot next to his toolkit. It was technically his first official receipt generated on Preservation. Technically his first birthday card, too. He just hoped he didn’t accidentally kill all the plants before next weekend, just in case he and this Ratthi person did cross paths again. Of course, Ratthi knew where he lived. Maybe he should get another chair, in case he stopped by?
Get a grip, he told himself, and went to go put away his groceries.