Free City of Pearl by Karen Traviss Page A

hothouses.”
    â€œIs that a uniform, this beige?”
    â€œNo, but we don’t bother to dye work clothes. Indulgent trivia.” Josh pulled his coat out with both hands like an apron. “It’s the natural color of the hemp fiber.”
    â€œYou’re big on environmental protection, then.” The Suppressed Briefing filtered into her conscious mind again: They took the world’s most complete archive of plant and animal specimens with them . “I think we have a great deal in common. Heard of EnHaz?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œEnvironmental Hazard Enforcement. It’s a police function. It’s what I do. Or at least it’s what I do now.”
    â€œIt’s commendable that people from your time treat despoiling the natural world for the crime it is.”
    From your time. Ah, that stung. Yes, she was dead as far as everyone she had ever known was concerned, killed by the one-way ticket of distance and time. She had a feeling that realization would start to eat at her.
    â€œAnd I won’t allow your world to be despoiled, either.” Poor Josh: he had his little paradise and now the secular, grasping, exploitative world had come bursting in on him. He had a right to be edgy. She began wondering how she would contain the research team.
    By the time she had completed the circuit of the main settlement, her legs were demanding that she stop. She was wheezing; her eyes and nose watered with the effort. It was going to take some time to adjust to higher gravity and lower oxygen. A rotten combination, she thought, but as habitable planets went it was a remarkably close match to home. It wasn’t methane and she was still able to lift her legs. Yes, it was close enough.
    Josh led her down steps and into a subterranean hall of sand-gold stone. It was solidly quiet except for distant birdsong. The walls curved round her, and there appeared to be rooms off a hall that was large enough to accommodate seating and tables. It seemed to be the hub of a wheelshaped house.
    Paper chains in muted colors hung in swags round the top of the walls, and there were those paper flowers everywhere. Some—less wonderful, less realistic—were evidently the painstaking work of a small child. There was no Christmas tree. But a waist-high plant in a large ceramic pot was decked with tiny glass globes in a riot of colors. Glassmaking was evidently the big art activity here.
    â€œI take your point about insulation,” Shan said. “This is very peaceful.” She craned her neck up to the domed skylight, which took up the entire width of the roof. It was slightly opaque, and gave a soft shadowless light. “Is this carved into rock too?”
    â€œPart rock, part soil. The facing is compacted earth. We sealed it with a sort of chalk.” He busied himself at a side table. “We have wine. Would you like some?”
    She bit back her automatic refusal. “Yes,” she said at last, concentrating hard on diplomacy. “I’d love a glass. Thank you.”
    She sat down on a padded bench at the table and watched him pour from a ceramic bottle. Courtesy told her not to examine the wine’s color too closely. The glass that held it was shot with opaque swirls and would have disguised all visible shortcomings. It smelled faintly of raspberries and mint, and although it triggered half-memories that she couldn’t pin down she knew they were genuinely distant, not obscured by neurotransmitter markers. She allowed herself a small sip. It was actually very pleasant wine, and the glass was beautiful. She thought glassware would be her lasting memory of Constantine. It was a transparent sort of place.
    â€œWhat are your plans?” Josh asked.
    â€œIf you don’t need assistance, we’ll just carry out some surveys and perhaps catalog some of the flora and fauna.” The birdsong was beginning to distract her for some reason. “With your