Page 9 of As You Wake, Break the Shell

As in most shops, the entry space beyond the airlock was appointed with hooks and cubbies meant for tucking away your protective gear. Once Cora noticed these, she wasted no more time. She scrambled, pulling off her goggles and mask. An involuntary sound left her throat as the air hit her nostrils—startled, delighted. Every shop, every building, every apartment had its own sort of air, and its character depended on how good your filters were, what supplier you got your tanks from, a dozen other things. But in all the buildings she’d been to in all her life, Cora had never breathed air like this. It was a little thick, like in the showers or the laundry room. Funky, too. Not bad, but kind of . . . sour? Chemically, but in a nice way? It was clean, that was for damn sure. Not clean like what got pumped into masks and buildings. That was clean like sterile. Clean like canned. This was some other kind of clean, one she’d never experienced but wanted more of. The air alone was worth the trip.

She looked around as she unzipped her suit. Nobody else seemed to be around. She thought about calling out, but then she noticed how quiet the place was. There was the hum and hiss of pumps and tanks, but other than that—nothing. No music, no chatter, nothing. It was a little eerie, almost. Nowhere in the Berth was quiet.

Beyond the entry space was a zigzagged ramp, dipping down a little below street level. This was a basement shop, a secret hollow nestled into the raft. A former utilities bay, probably, before the building above got a retrofit. Cora followed the ramp and found herself in a living library of shelves, each spilling over with growing things. The shelves were lit with long, built-in light bulbs in funny colors—some warm white, some purplish red, some a piercing blue that was hard to look at for too long. Cora walked through, astonished by all the different shapes of leaves and stems. She didn’t recognize many of them, which wasn’t a surprise. Plants weren’t something she knew shit about. She walked past a shelf labeled Kitchen Starters, and sure, she’d seen some of those plants in kitchens or restaurants. She knew what lettuce looked like, and she could imagine the little nubbins for sale turning into that. But as her eyes trailed over the other labels—chard, okra, strawberry—she knew the words and the tastes, but hadn’t ever given much thought toward what they were before they ended up on a plate.

And that . . . that was fucking cool to contemplate.

A counter stood beyond the rows of shelves, equipped with scanners, screens, and everything else a shopkeeper needed. Cora didn’t notice the curtain hanging behind the counter until it rustled and was pushed aside. A woman stuck her head out from a back room. She was about Cora’s age, give or take, somewhere in her early thirties. She had sharp eyes, and her dark hair was kept water-savvy short. “I’m in the middle of something,” the woman said, with no hint of a hello. “Feel free to browse, but don’t touch anything. I’ll be with you when I’m done. Fifteen minutes.”

She disappeared before Cora could reply.

For the next fifteen minutes, Cora felt two things: pure wonder, and kind of stupid. She couldn’t think of a reason as to why she’d never been to a place like this. It just hadn’t ever occurred to her to seek this kind of thing out. How many secret jungles did the Berth have, tucked away behind the gray? She chewed on that question as she walked among the shelves, discovering something new with every step. There were plants with spikes and plants with curls and plants that grew in water—glass tanks filled with tangles of slimy something-or-other that swayed hypnotically in a pumped current, silvery bubbles clinging to every leaf. Cora swatted away the urge to stick her hand in the tank and brush the bubbles loose. That would’ve actually been stupid. Sticking your hand into water you hadn’t pulled from the tap yourself was a great way to melt your fingers off. What in the world had given her the impulse to touch it?

Out of the corner of Cora’s eye, the curtain behind the counter fluttered again, but she was too caught up in the puzzle on the shelf in front of her to pay it much mind. She turned her head just enough to throw a question over her shoulder. “How are these onions?” she asked.

A pause met her in response. “I’m sorry?” the shopkeeper said.

Cora angled herself out toward the counter. “How are these onions?” she repeated, pointing at the plants giving her a mild crisis.

The shopkeeper perched herself on a cushioned stool and folded her hands in her lap. “What do you mean ‘how’?”

Cora made a large, onion-sized circle with both of her hands, fingertips touching fingertips. “How does something this big”—she pointed at the waifish green stalks—“grow on that?”

The shopkeeper’s unmoving expression might have made Cora feel even stupider, had Cora not been filled with the conviction that this did not make sense.

“For one thing,” the shopkeeper began, “those are spring onions, not . . .” She briefly made the same big onion shape with her hands, then returned them to her lap. “Not cooking onions. But those are—okay, do you know what a bulb is?”

“You mean like for lights?” Cora asked.

“No.” The shopkeeper made the onion shape with her hands again. “This? The thing you cut up that makes you cry? That’s the part that gets set into a hydro planter. The leaves grow up out of it.” She made a few upward motions with her left fingers, pantomiming growth. “An onion doesn’t grow on the visible part of the plant. It’s the part that’s rooted underneath.” Her tone was clinical, neutral. Maybe she got questions like this all the time.

Cora peered closer at the plants. “I thought . . .” She’d thought that all vegetables were something you picked off branches, like lemons or tomatoes. But, okay, onions were the underneath part. Hmm. She started to ask what spring onions were, but the shopkeeper had a look that said whatever she’d set aside behind the curtain wasn’t worth abandoning for the sake of onion class.

Cora swallowed her curiosity with pursed lips and headed to the counter.

The shopkeeper poured herself a cup of tea from a kettle resting on a hot plate. She glanced up without moving her head. “I assume you’re not here to buy onion starts.”

“Ha, no.” Cora stuck her hands in the pockets of her indoor jacket and smiled. “My name’s Cora.”

“Signy,” the shopkeeper supplied in exchange. “Should I know who you are?”

“No, I just . . . it’s nicer to talk to people when you know their name, right?”

The shopkeeper—Signy—opened the lid of a small ceramic jar in the shape of a blueberry. She took a spoonful of sorghum crystals from it, poured them into her tea, and stirred, holding the tiny spoon between thumb and forefinger. She looked at Cora, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Get to the point.

Cora’s heart hammered, but she kept her tone as easy as her smile. “I was, ah . . .” She cleared her throat. “I was told you print medicine.” She spoke the words as though she were asking about where a good chicory joint might be, or what was new on the radio. In reality, she’d just jumped off a cliff—a cliff that had kept her staring into the dark above her bed for two months and counting. She had no idea what was waiting at the bottom.

Signy’s face didn’t move beyond a single, judgmental blink. She sighed, reached under the counter, and brought out three laminated license cards: a business license, a bioprinter license, and something to do with sale of botanical goods. “I’d like to see your badge,” Signy said. She arranged the licenses in a tidy row on the counter, where they could be easily scanned. “I’m going to file a complaint about being subjected to a completely unfounded, barely legal sting less than a year after I passed my annual inspection.”

It took Cora a second to get it, but once she did, she laughed. “Oh god, no, I’m not a cop.”

Signy did not laugh. She folded her arms together across her chest. “‘Every resident of the Berth has the right to demand identification from government officials and law enforcement officers before complying further,’” she recited, then added: “Also, did you see a man in an apartment window across the street before you came in?”

“Uh—yes?”

“Wonderful. I have a witness to back me up. Badge, now.”