Pollen

Rome had tried throughout the day, in vain, to reach Mae. She was clearly making him sweat. It hadn’t helped his mood and as he left work he had to concede defeat, both to Mae and his guilt. He ran a report on all coverage dedicated to the decade anniversary. Of the 1,023 articles written or vlogged about him today, 45 percent were negative. Like a sore animal, he plodded out of his shop, locking up with great difficulty, then meandered through the Eastern Tangle. He didn’t notice those around him. It was dark but the moon was full and bright, he was sure people still knew his face—even in this light. That historic day ten years ago had created public division and his teenage audacity would be forever viewed as a setback for New Hanoi. It unnerved him to think that strangers might recognize him.

It was this mindset that had increased Rome’s need for a little relief from the pressures of reality. He found it in an off-the-books business he’d created that had been running for the past three years. It scared him slightly, but it also generated a good profit. This profit was poured into indulgences in which he could drown himself and forget the sorrows created by his teenage mistake. Before heading to the Anther to meet with his newfound Trader contact, he had some time to squeeze in a deal.

He scanned the local news for any faction movements in The Lanes, north of the Tangle. This was a stronghold for the Brothers’ Resistance, a right-wing Christian organization with thousands of members that skimmed illegal gravy from the legal operations of New Hanoi’s seven casinos. The organization employed an isolationist policy that had been working all too well, and they’d become so strong that no one would make a move on them. Of course, as with all ideologies, the practicalities of living meant they had to bend their isolationist ideals and let certain well-vetted raconteurs into the community to trade.

Rome, too, recognizing an opportunity, was willing to peel back his morals for a few good deals. A handful of the Brothers’ Resistance’s charismatic leaders had been trading literature for power for over a year because they liked to preach other people’s thoughts as their own to their followers. Books for power were simple, clean deals. It didn’t sit too well with Rome, trading with a bunch of thugs, but he’d grown weary of his morals he’d been trodden on and trampled for his choices for the past ten years. Here, no one gave a fuck.

The Lanes seemed to grow tighter by the day, with overhanging shacks cobbled together with mud brick and scrap metal and dirty tarpaulins flapping in the breeze. Sometimes the path through wasn’t clear, and climbing over a wall was necessary to pick your way through the maze. Mostly, people looked like they drank a liter of formaldehyde every day of their adult lives. Their still faces, worn and still gazed down the alleyways, and always, back to their pasts.

The Lanes had grown with the supply of cheap highs and homemade booze. Demand had spiraled up with more people being drawn into the place in an attempt to forget themselves. Of course, all they found were willing sellers of flowers, and amateur but brutal narcotic cocktails. There were over one hundred species of lilies shipped in every three days; a few were laced with genetically modified pollen spores that gave highs far greater and more addictive than any other substance in drug history. This was ground zero for addiction. As a result, the local economy grew rapidly, and the criminals with entrepreneurial skills soon acted on the divide between addict and supplier. Local businessmen ran their streets as powerful dictatorships, and they all paid a protection tax to the Brothers’ Resistance. There was no doubting who controlled these streets.

The temperature had dropped to a chilly twenty-eight degrees. The Lanes were busy with street vendors selling booze, and dim lights buzzed outside dens of broken dreams. People wheezed on smoke; little clouds of tobacco puffed through open windows. Rome had changed into his Lanes clothes, the suit and k-legs left at the shop. He was dressed simply, in black trousers and a black T-shirt, with gray weathered sandals. This was not a part of town where you would want to appear an obvious outsider. He walked past the sex shops under concrete arches—Live Nude Girls painted on the walls, the letters dusty and chipped. Hookers hung around the door, draped uneasily on chairs at the entrance, used lilies discarded at their feet, an available look in their eyes. He passed massage parlors, ink joints, and solitary sex tourists. Everywhere he went, the smell of rot lingered. Content in their self-imposed loathing of others, the people here believed themselves kings and queens of their murky worlds—of a particular bar, of poker, of boxing. They all had talents, and they got to practice them a lot. Rome enjoyed his time in the Lanes. It made his heart beat faster. He laughed harder here than in his sheltered life as a legitimate businessman.

Recently, Mr. Claypool, a big-time pool player and a captain within the Brothers’ Resistance, had befriended Rome. Claypool had outbid his fellow captains in recent purchases of Gibson, Stephenson, and other local authors’ novels that Rome was selling. The deals had seen Rome earn more power in one deal than in a month of running his shop.

Beneath the tea-stained moon, Rome turned a corner to see the dirt-hole Bar of Geneva. No signs outside, just a knot of smokers in vest tops and tattoos. The bar stank of homebrewed beer, the kind that stuck to the roof of your mouth like syrup. Candles burned from mountains of wax, lighting up the tables. And in every corner a gamer was hooked into the Network, powered by personal generators rented from power dealers. The gamers were a dangerous mob with superfast reactions. Their eyes were always restless, and their minds in a cycle of violence. Rome looked away.

Playing pool, eyeing up a four-ball combination shot, was Claypool. He was tall, lean, and tougher than a razor-blade knuckleduster. Claypool was a real player in the Lanes. He had a smart pawnshop mind and black rubberized eyes.

Rome had done some digging after he started trading with Claypool. At thirty-three, Claypool had survived childhood in this shanty town and a lifetime of street fighting to become a captain of the Brothers’ Resistance.

Showing off his gruff, stitched-on apps and scarred arms, he played his shot perfectly. “Save the table. I’ve got business,” he growled, as Rome gingerly approached.

“Helluva shot,” Rome said.

“This way, my friend,” Claypool flashed a false smile, two gold teeth catching the candlelight for a second. He ushered Rome through synthetic velvet curtains to a back room with a private show in full flow. The stripper hesitated for a moment, but the customer immediately left, avoiding any eye contact with Claypool. She kept dancing, sliding up and down the pole as Rome sat, facing away from her. Claypool smiled knowingly.

“A man of business, not pleasure?” his voice rumbled, as he looked her up and down over Rome’s shoulder.

“Kinda,” Rome replied.

“Excellent. I often meet with your type but they are constantly distracted. You know the problem with your middle class?”

Rome shook his head.

“You think too much. I see many people in your position and they think, ‘Should I watch? Am I supposed to? What would my wife say?’ And if they are without a woman, they only think about fucking one of my pretty girls and not about the business they are here to conduct.” Claypool fixed his dead man’s gaze firmly on Rome. The coldness and power of his glare was meant to intimidate, and Rome could feel the warning shot coming. “I’m a man of faith. I have faith in the almighty, and I have faith in my weapon, and in the Brothers’ Resistance. I am guided on my life’s mission. You strike me as a man of logic and science.”

“I am.”

“So let me ask you, why don’t believe?”

“When you understand why you don’t believe in another god,” Rome said, studying the crucifix around Claypool’s neck, “you’ll understand why I don’t believe in yours.”

“Ha!” rasped Claypool. “At least you are no fool. We stand at a divide, but I was wrong about you, I confess. You do have faith, faith in your science, so we can do some real business together, and I can teach you about faith, about purpose.”

“Sounds good,” Rome said, feeling the sweat drip down his back. The dancer left her pole and pressed her big breasts up against Rome’s back, lithely running her arms across his chest.

“I have a proposition for you,” Claypool said. “I’ve seen your life. I appreciate how much things are worth to men like you, but you only deal in currency, and as you can see, I do not need currency.”

“What do you need?” Rome scratched out his words.

“Knowledge, my friend. You are meeting tonight with a Trader, and they are going to present you with something. I want to know what it is and what you will do with it. Answer me truthfully, and we shall advance our arrangement. If you choose not to answer me, I will be forced to obtain the information another way.”

“First, that’s not exactly a great deal for me,” Rome said, his business head running his mouth off. “But how did you know that . . . ?” Rome’s question trailed off as the stripper ran her hand down his stomach and grabbed his balls with a tight squeeze.

“I’ve got a pool game to get back to, and you’ve got an interesting evening ahead of you.” Claypool stood up and leaned over Rome. “Would you like my girl to give you a hand job? On the house, of course.”

“No thanks, I’ve got a girlfriend.” Rome croaked.

“Ah yes, that’s right, her name is Mae. She’s done well to get her promotion, but it’s a pity you haven’t spoken to her all day.” He smiled and ordered the stripper to escort Rome out. She kept her arm around his waist and her chest close. Rome turned to say something, but his throat was too dry for words. Life had just gotten complicated.

* * *

The Traders had a few haunts where they liked to hang out when topside. The Anther held the edge over the competition, as its vast space and private booths made trades easy and discreet. The genetically modified pollen traded here was significantly better than the spliced mess of the Lanes, but the cost was high, too.

The pollen here could strap you to a rocket ship and blast off without a countdown, or it could keep you so relaxed you wouldn’t notice someone removing your arm with a hacksaw. The Traders, of course, never touched the stuff because their lungs couldn’t handle it. Born outside the city, they needed gas masks to leave the trading tunnels beneath the streets and come to the surface. The air in New Hanoi choked and killed anyone who wasn’t born inside the walls, and for the people of the city, the opposite was true. A few had tried to smuggle themselves out with the Traders, and all of them had suffocated outside the walls. No one knew why, despite years of research. Still, the Traders had access to the latest batches from the Flower Factory, and therefore all the power and influence.

The Anther had a great public space in front of the bar, and it was a common location to meet people for festivals. A large plaza had developed over time, a focal point for meeting with friends.

The artificial leaves of a hydro-tree hummed slightly, unpacking its power, which was absorbed from the intense sun through the day and channeled into the New Hanoi mainframe. Each leaf was the size of a playing card and coated in nickel and cobalt catalysts. They glinted in the pale light of the street lamps, which themselves were powered by the tree. Beneath the trees that lined the plaza was a fine display of lilies, well-tended by the staff of the various bars and cafes.

Rome was looking for Cinderella and found her quickly. She sat, legs crossed, in a long red sleeveless dress, nestled among clusters of pink, blue, and white lilies. She had perfectly tanned skin, which was unusual for a Trader, as they spent most of their time in the tunnels. Her gas mask didn’t obstruct any of her features. A plate of plastic with side gills protected her from the harmful air. She was clearly relaxed and almost looked excited to see him stroll over to her, which disarmed him immediately.

Rome suddenly found that he’d developed a slight swagger. He felt confident, and he was enjoying being a part of the mystery, not analyzing it. Only a few meters away, with his mind firmly fixed on Cinderella’s face, his left foot clipped the cobbled path. He stumbled forward before quickly correcting himself.

“Still young, see that balance?” he said, smiling, feeling his face burn red.

“Yeah, sure.” She stood up and smiled. “Athletic!”

They entered the Anther, Rome pulling himself together. The Anther was a pretty decadent place. The owners got deals on trades, as the Traders wanted somewhere in the district that felt a little more like home. Glass chandeliers hung from the ceiling, but the walls were covered in ripped posters of old movies and book covers. The main bar area had a hardwood floor and was split into corridors of private booths. Each had its own canopy of synth-leaf, an organic material that absorbed sound, making the booths perfect for discreet deals and sometimes pleasure.

“Oh shit, sorry,” Cinderella said. “I’ve forgotten my power card. It’s in the tunnels. Can you buy me a drink?”

“Sure, what do you want?”

“A moonshine, please.”

“One glass moonshine and one pouch moonshine, please,” Rome politely ordered. The barman nodded then shook his head as he turned away. Traders had to drink from a pouch, because the gas mask got in the way of a glass. Rome’s face flushed a little redder. He thought he’d stop his act of trying to be cool.

“Thanks,” she said. “I still feel naughty asking you to buy me a drink. I’m the Trader. I should be buying.”

“No problems.”

They picked a booth down at the far end of the bar. A red candle lit the inside, the smell warm and inviting. They sat slowly, Rome still trying to read her face. She could only stay for five hours in the district before she’d need to change filters in her mask, and that involved leaving the city altogether. Still, the sheet of plastic gave her a thin film to hide behind. The straw she sucked on was black and looking more like a feeding tube than a drinking straw; it added to the otherworldliness of her expressions. When they’d met at the party, he’d been drinking for some time. Now sober, he felt much more self-conscious.

“I take it we don’t need to do niceties,” Cinderella said.

“If you want to get down to business, we can do that. Personally, I like to have a conversation with my drink,” he replied.

“Well,” she said with a big smile. “That sounds good to me.”

They covered the basics effortlessly. The standard questions to gauge a person and pass instant judgments. They already knew they were among a minority of people who read books, and most importantly, history books. Rome started to loosen up when Cinderella leaned forward, capturing his attention.

“Mind if I ask you a personal question?”

“Personal? You could get in a lot of trouble,” Rome whispered playfully.

“You really don’t strike me as the type to pull protocol. I know, I know, it’s there to protect you!” She held her hands up in mock surrender. “But I mean if Traders can’t get to know you, and you can’t get to know us, then what good is that doing anyone?”

Rome was caught off guard. The Traders had a strict protocol with the residents of New Hanoi. Any disclosure of information about life outside the city was strictly prohibited. The law was so strict that all Traders’ gas masks were equipped with monitoring devices and the zero-tolerance punishment was a ban from the city for you and any known associates. It kept the Traders in line, despite the best efforts of the citizens to trick and ply information out of them.

“I don’t think it’s about doing good.” Rome said. “I think it’s making sure people don’t go and get crazy ideas, hearing about the outside world. That’s damn dangerous to those who have lived in a bubble for so long. But you’re right. I’m not the type to pull protocol, but it’s your ass.”

She smiled. “Good. I had a feeling you’d be interesting. I love it when I’m right. Don’t worry about our conversations. I’ve found a method to keep this off the books.”

“So shoot, what’s the personal question?”

“Ten years ago . . .” she started, but Rome rolled his eyes, visibly disappointed. “Okay, I see you aren’t a fan of that topic.”

“I’m trying to forget it.”

“You don’t want to leave?”

“I’d love to get out of here, but I know we can’t. You come and go as you please, but there’s nothing except the end waiting for us. We were born here, and we’ll die here. You have to adjust your thinking. You have to concentrate on what you have, strive to improve what you have—your friendships, business.” Rome paused and then said, “That day ten years ago, that was the day it all changed. That was the day everyone saw with their own eyes that they are never leaving. Only unfulfilled expectations are left, and I’m trying to make my life worth living.” Rome tried to smile, but failed.

“The changes we all go through, right? Growing up never really stops, does it?”

“I’ll drink to that. Some days I have no idea how I got here, how I became me. I guess it’s half the fun, never fully knowing yourself.” Rome took a long sip of his moonshine, surprised at his own honesty.

“So let me ask you this. What if you could escape? Are there many people who would follow you again?”

“They don’t follow me; they follow the idea,” he said wistfully, remembering his moment. “And the idea has grown in some people to an obsession, but in others it withered and died long ago. It’s the same with religion, like those crazy Christian bastards. We can only experience the world from our own perspective, right? Theirs is a need to invent belief systems that reassure us that the end isn’t the end. Here, it’s all sped up. The end is all around you all the time. This is your entire life within the circumference of a wall. They can’t admit that to themselves so they have to rationalize it, to convert all of us sinners. It makes them the good guys so for all their actions, for all that they have done, they can be forgiven. It’s someone else’s fault, and not their own. It’s a war that has raged for all of human history, and here it’s got the throttle down and no brakes. If you sell the people the right idea, they’ll come.” Rome took a long pause and looked about the bar, conscious he’d opened up more than he would have liked to a perfect stranger. “I’ve got a question for you.”

“Okay,” she sat up.

“You ever feel like you’re spread too thin?”

Her expression changed. It softened. The corners of her mouth relaxed into a subtle smile, the type of smile you wished you weren’t giving away, but knew you were.

“All the time. The world’s a big place, Rome, but my life is as tied up in this city as yours. I take holidays, and I’ve seen things, but I always end up here. Without this place, I’d be homeless, eaten up by the world. Trade, Rome, it’s all about trade.” She tilted her head to the left awkwardly, like her next words would hurt. “And you are the world’s greatest captive market.”

They both took a slow, thoughtful drink. Rome felt peaceful, like he’d always recognized life couldn’t be much more different on the outside, but he was holding back, and she knew it. Who wouldn’t want to escape if the opportunity presented itself?

“If you had the chance, would you leave?” she asked.

“Yes,” Rome whispered. He stared at the table and sighed through his nose, remembering the elation he’d felt climbing the wall. It was an opportunity to see a new world, to live and move as he pleased, or at the very least to have a choice. “Choice is the greatest privilege a human can know. This town, this district, it’s the same as the rest of the world, I bet you, only different choices have been presented to us,” Rome said. “We’ve got people at the top, people at the bottom, and a whole lot of people in the middle, but mostly people making their way as best they can. Does that sound anything like the outside world?”

“A little.” She bit her lip. “A lot, actually.”

Rome continued. “The resentment really starts not so much because we are locked in, but because of the way we are treated. You flinched when you said we were the world’s greatest captive market, like we don’t know that. You charge whatever you like to bring in the goods we depend on, and we are held to ransom whenever the Traders feel like it. That’s what makes me feel like a prisoner. How would you like it if some foreign force walled you up and then charged you whatever it liked for food, water, and clothes? You’d be pretty pissed off, right?”

A lull descended upon them, but Cinderella had brought him here for a reason. “Have you never, ever, really spoken to a Trader about the outside?”

“Nope, never. I’ve studied it with every book I could find.”

“And how many people do you think would have read up on life outside?”

“Oh, there’s a movement of people who want nothing more than to get out and see the world, but they really are a minority, in my experience. People love to hear the story, and they love the pursuit but not the arrest. The protocol was one of the best actions taken. It gave us an identity. I thought there would be revolutions in the street, a bloody sunrise, ya know? But by putting us in charge of whether we want to hear that information or not, we had power, real power. People choose not to hear about what they can’t have. The lure of temptation vanished, because the people had the power to choose. Make no mistake that was the only free choice the people here have ever had to make.”

“So why have you broken protocol with me?”

Rome stared at his drink, put his finger to his lips, and sighed. “I think you broke it first. Don’t they listen in on you—the powers that be?”

“They do. I’ve not got long left until they discover my deception. I needed to have an honest conversation for once.”

“Sorry? Your deception? What do you mean?”

“Rome, I’m sorry to be the one to break this to you, but when I saw you at the fairy tale party, I knew we’d found our man.”

“We?”

“I’m here on behalf of an organization that has been working toward the liberation of this city. I had to be sure. We need your help. We need someone we can trust on the inside.”

“I can’t help you. I’m a café owner trying to run a business and enjoy my life.” Rome held his hands up and recoiled from the table.

“You are the man who led the district to the walls and tried to scale them. People listen to you. There’s a change coming, and you have a choice to make.”

“What kind of change are we talking about here? Are people’s lives in danger?”

“Ideologically, no. Practically, yes.”

“What kind of answer is that?”

“An honest one. You are living in a prison. This entire city is. There are worldwide protests, a howl of moral outrage for you and your lives here. You are a stain on the conscience of the world, but you are an example too. Tomorrow morning, when you go to open your shop, there will be a package waiting for you in your office, but do not tell anyone of this. The longer this is our secret, the safer people will be. You will have many questions, and the answers to them all will lie in my gift to you. Listen, I have to leave pretty soon. My filters are beginning to fill, and I need to get back to the tunnels. I can’t risk them seeing me with you.”

“Who are ‘they’? You are going to have to give me a little more to go on here, and I don’t want some philosophical ‘You have to go on a quest to find the truth’ nonsense.”

“You will have to decide if you want to leave this place alone and safe, or save the lives of many while risking your own.”

“Tell me one thing. Will Mae be safe?”

“Who’s Mae?”

“My girlfriend.”

Her face had fallen, the bareness of truth exposed. “It’ll all depend on you.”

She left the booth. Rome tried to follow, but he was confronted by three large men in gas masks who blocked his path. They pushed him, gently, back to his seat and waited for Cinderella to leave. “Shit!” Rome said under his breath. He realized that he still didn’t know her real name.