Diaspora

Orlando said, "There are twelve thousand and ninety-three of us, now. But we're still tweaking the crops, and our digestive symbionts; within ten years, we should be able to support four thousand more with the same resources," Yatima decided it would be impolite to inquire about their mortality rate. In most respects, the fleshers had a far harder time than the Coalition in trying to avoid cultural and genetic stagnation while eschewing the lunacy of exponential growth. Only true statics, and a few of the more conservative exuberants, retained the ancestral genes for programmed death and asking for a figure on accidental losses might have seemed insensitive.

Orlando laughed suddenly. "Ten years? What would that seem like to you? A century?"

Yatima replied, "About eight millennia."

"Fuck."

Inoshiro added hastily. "You can't really convert, though. We might do a few simple things eight hundred times faster, but we change much more slowly than that."

"Empires don't rise and fall in a year? New species don't evolve in a century?"

Yatima reassured him, "Empires are impossible. And evolution requires vast amounts of mutation and death. We prefer to make small changes, rarely, and wait to see how they turn out."

"So do we." Orlando shook his head. "Still. Over eight thousand years, I have a feeling we won't be keeping such a tight grip on things."

They continued on toward the city, following a broad path which looked like it was made of nothing more than reddish-brown clay, but probably teemed with organisms designed to keep it from eroding into dust or mud. The gleisner's feet described the surface as soft but resilient, and they left no visible indentations. Birds were busy in the fields, eating weeds and insects—Yatima was only guessing, but if they were feeding on the crop itself the next harvest would be extremely sparse.

Orlando stopped to pick up a small leafy branch from the path, which must have blown in from the forest, then began sweeping it back and forth across the ground ahead of them. "So how do they greet dignitaries in the polises? Are you accustomed to having sixty thousand non-sentient slaves strewing rose petals at your feet?"

Yatima laughed, but Inoshiro was deeply offended. "We're not dignitaries! We're delinquents!"

As they drew nearer, Yatima could see people walking along the broad avenues between the rainbow-colored buildings—or loitering in groups, looking almost like citizens gathered in some forum, even if their appearance was much less diverse. Some had vis own icon's dark skin, and there were other equally minor variations, but all of these exuberants could have passed for statics. Yatima wondered just what changes they were exploring; Orlando had mentioned digestive symbionts, but that hardly counted—it didn't even involve their own DNA.

Orlando said, "When we noticed you coming, it was hard to decide who to send. We don't get much news from the polises—we had no idea what you'd be like." He turned back to face them. "I do make sense to you, don't I? I'm not just imagining that communication is taking place?"

"Not unless we're imagining it, too." Yatima was puzzled. "What do you mean, though: who to send? Do some of you speak Coalition languages?"

"No." They'd reached the outskirts of the city; people were turning to watch them with undisguised curiosity. "I'll explain soon. Or a friend of mine will."

The avenues were carpeted with thick, short grass. Yatima could see no vehicles or pack animals, just fleshers, mostly barefoot. Between the buildings there were flowerbeds, ponds and streams, statues still and moving, sundials and telescopes. Everything was space and light, open to the sky. There were parks, large enough for kite flying and ball games, and people sitting talking in the shade of small trees. The gleisner's skin was sending tags describing the warmth of the sunlight and the texture of the grass; Yatima was almost beginning to regret not modifying verself enough to absorb the information instinctively.

Inoshiro asked, "What happened to pre-Introdus Atlanta? The skyscrapers? The factories? The apartment blocks?"

"Some of it's still standing. Buried in the jungle, further north. I could take you there later, if you like."

Yatima got in quickly before Inoshiro could answer. "Thank you, but we won't have time."

Orlando nodded at dozens of people, greeted some by name, and introduced Yatima and Inoshiro to a few. Yatima attempted to shake their offered hands, which turned out to be an extraordinarily complex dynamical problem. No one seemed hostile to their presence—hut Yatima found their gestalt gestures confusing, and no one uttered more than a few polite phrases before walking on.

"This is my home."