But her bicycle wasn't designed for speed. It had a low center of gravity and a computer-supported gear-shifter, into which she had secretly installed new firmware she had written herself. Those three assets made it possible for her to leave the assigned paths and ride between the fields, and even travel through the Ship's wilderness tracts where only a few metach ever wandered, since they lay away from the settlements and fields.
And the firmware had a second, equally important function: it made the bicycle effectively Denetree's. If anyone else climbed onto the seat, the firmwear switched to neutral. The spectacle that followed had many variations, but only one conclusion: the unhappy would-be rider got off the bicycle cursing, sent a DAMAGED report to the Net over the guidance computer, and left the bicycle in the ditch without another thought. Thanks to Denetree's firmware, none of those reports ever reached the Net.The Net only ever saw a standard green indication from the guidance computer: "Bicycle intact. No maintenance required."
Pedaling furiously in high gear, Denetree left behind the field where she had spent today's shift. Her arms and neck ached. Harvesting jakulent was hard labor. The long-stemmed plants were cultivated by the Ship for the sturdy fibers in their stalks. But choosing which of the stalks were ripe for harvest, cutting them and separating them into their individual fibers was a nasty grind—such hard work that a person was rarely assigned to the work for more than two weeks.
Denetree ignored the pain. She would forget it completely in half an hour, when the exertions of pedaling would bring her pulse to a constant 140 beats per minute, and the blood that pulsed through her veins took the pain with it.
Today, her thoughts were somewhere else.
She was worried about her brother. Venron had become more taciturn in recent weeks than ever before. Not that he had ever said very much, but he had opened up to her, at least, especially when the feeling of being locked in, of there being no way out, threatened to overwhelm him. Then he had laid his head in her lap and looked up at the sky. It hung overhead, close enough to touch—close enough to make one weep—and was always the same. By day, bright, though never blinding; by night, an oppressive, impenetrable black.
Denetree and Venron had endured considerable mockery and nasty remarks over time. Not because of their shared yearning for the stars, which they kept to themselves, but because the brother and sister shared a close relationship. The Ship did not support families. Children were raised in groups according to their ages; siblings rarely knew each other, and only a few cared to try. What would have been the point?
By chance, Denetree and Venron had been assigned to adjacent Metach'tons. And ever since they had run into each other that first time, they had been inseparable. A connection existed between them that even they could not explain.
The strongest bond between them was their common desire to escape to the stars, to find a new life away from the prison of the ship. Venron had often wept as he dreamed of that possibility, but Denetree waited in vain for relieving tears to come to her. The hard grip of his hands around her body relaxed to a gentle touch and his breath evened out as he lost himself in the fantasy of escape.
Denetree had never managed to flee into her dreams to find peace. She only had her bicycle, the pumping of her heart, the protesting throb in her thighs, and the endless rounds through the ship that took her nowhere.
Denetree reached the fields where Venron's Metach'ton was currently assigned. The hut that served the two dozen men and women as a shelter, changing and storage room was deserted. They must have finished their shift already. Denetree thought for a moment, then went on in the direction of the bow. All day long, the members of her Metach'ton had enthused over the party that would be taking place there tonight; perhaps the news had reached Venron's Metach'ton also.
After a few minutes, she saw a group of people moving slowly through the fields. She pedaled faster and quickly caught up. It was Venron's Metach'ton. A swarm of bicycles surrounded an electric-powered harvest platform. It was strictly forbidden to use the platforms for anything other than work—energy was too valuable to waste it on leisure activities—but the young men and women didn't care about the rules. Half the members of the Metach'ton had made themselves comfortable on the dirty platform, while the rest rode on bicycles, trying to hang on to the platform with one hand so they could be pulled along. The metach were exhausted from the day's labors, but the urge to feel something other than exhaustion pushed them on.
"Watch out!" one of the men on bicycles called when he saw Denetree approach. "Here comes that pale little speed demon again!"
The group made no effort to stop. Denetree came alongside, shifted to a lower gear, and shot with perfect aim through a gap in the bicycle riders to the platform.
"Melenda!"
The young woman cuddled in the lap of another metach. When she saw Denetree coming, she deliberately turned her head and, her eyes closed, gave the man a long, deep kiss.
"Melenda, please!"
The woman disengaged from the embrace and stared at Denetree in annoyance. "What do you want with me? Can't you see I'm busy?"
"I'm looking for Venron. Do you happen to know where he is?"
"Venron ... " Melenda rolled her eyes. Her pupils were dilated. Had she already been smoking? The jakulent stalks could be used for more than one purpose, especially ones of which the Ship didn't approve. "Oh, now I know who you mean! That lazy slacker who thinks he's too good for us! He was on his shift."
"And?"
"As usual, he did only half his quota. We had to slog away for him so he could he wander around the field and daydream."
One of the men on the bicycles came closer, making a game out of trying to force Denetree away. Without looking, Denetree took her right foot out of the pedal's magnetic stirrup and gave the man a kick.
"And after the shift?"
"Who cares about that?"
The man got back at Denetree for the kick by waving the other bicycle riders into a phalanx that pushed on Denetree from all sides. They would teach the troublemaker a lesson.
"Please, Melenda! Help me! I ... "
The men were on her. Denetree took a blow to her side. Her back wheel and the front wheel of one of the other bicycles rubbed against each other with a shrill squealing. Denetree yanked the handlebars around, then braked. Someone hit her again. The circle around her closed. Malicious faces laughed at her, like children torturing a field rodent. Denetree looked wildly around and saw a tiny opening to the right. She rose from her seat in order to step on the pedals with all her strength. There wasn't time to engage the battery.
She broke away from the crowd but she could not avoid falling. Suddenly, the unfenced irrigation channel was right in front of her, and in the next moment the ground came up to meet her with a metallic scraping. Enthusiastic catcalls accompanied her fall.
Denetree laid in the grass until the crowd moved off. The hoots and cheers gradually died away. Then Denetree heard the shrill voice of a woman say, "Just ask the Net where your brother is!" and the whinnying laughter of the rest of the Metach'ton in response.
"Just ask the Net!"
Nothing could be easier.
She stood up carefully, checking her body for injuries. On her hip was a blood-engorged spot where she had run into the handlebar. Otherwise she was unhurt. She pulled the bicycle upright; its back wheel had landed in the irrigation channel. She had been fortunate: the vulnerable rims had not been bent.
She trembled in rage and humiliation. The metach had no right to treat her like that! They ... Denetree thought of Venron. What must he endure at the hands of his Metach'ton, day in and day out? It was said that nothing escaped the Net; it was there for everyone. Why didn't the Net transfer him to a different group? If this is how they treated him, she didn't think Venron could hold out much longer.
She got back on the bicycle,