Compared to Offshoot, Stem was flat. All the buildings were dug into the dunes, with sand and thin grasses covering them. The roof plantings were sparse—lots of grasses tipped with tiny purple and red flowers, and thin vines hanging down walls. She didn’t see any actual gardens like they had on top of the dorm or the dining hall.
Chena reached the boardwalk closest to the water’s edge. The lane broadened out into a wide street. Along the edges, people had set up poles and hung them with canvas to make shady awnings. Men and women sat under the awnings in the middle of collections of baskets, talking to, or even shouting at, the passersby.
“Fresh as a daisy, straight out of the lake, not five minutes ago!”
“Pure dried, take a look at that, smell that, that’s pure and strong, that is!”
“Lake plums! Lake plums! Sweet and tangy, right here!”
Chena’s smile returned. It was a market, like they had in the stairways on the station some weeks. Except the stuff here looked new.
Chena’s good mood put a swing in her stride as she passed through the market, glancing casually into the baskets, but not letting herself be caught by the sellers. Some baskets held piles of dried leaves or brightly colored cloth. One or two held other baskets. There were toys, clothes, even some shoes, although none of them would be much good in the woods, since they were mostly sandals. But there were jackets and fruits and paper books, bread and jugs of stuff that smelled sweet or tangy or just plain strong. Chena felt a familiar soft envy steal over her that she knew came from the sight of so many things she couldn’t have.
The cool wind off the water brought the scent of cooking fish and hot spices. Chena’s stomach rumbled painfully. She followed the scent to another white tent, where people lined up like they did in the dining hall in Offshoot. Chena spotted a stack of bowls, grabbed one, and joined the line. But before she could get to the pots of whatever smelled so good, a round, brown, bald man walking by with a stack of clean bowls frowned at her.
“Don’t know you, do I?” His accent was nasal and he slurred his words together into unfamiliar patterns.
Before Chena could think, she shook her head.
“Lemme see your hand.” He balanced the bowls in the crook of one fat elbow and gestured impatiently. Reluctantly, Chena extended her hand, and he studied the mark on the back.
Then he turned his head and spat on the sandy boardwalk. “Get outta here. This is for citizens only. Offshoot’s gotta feed its own.”
“Please?” Chena tried, putting on her best big-eyed begging look. “I’ve been riding all morning. I won’t take much, I promise.”
“Piss off, kid.”
“Back at you.” Chena pitched her bowl right at the stack in his arms. It hit, and all the bowls tumbled to the boardwalk. She was already off and running by the time she heard shattering ceramic. Her legs were tired, but she tore down the boardwalk, shoving her way between people and dodging around obstacles she barely saw, until the tents were out of sight behind the dunes.
Great, she thought, wrapping her arms tight around herself and staring at the dunes and their sparse, waving grass. Now what?
There had to be a place where she could pay for food. She had a couple of metal chits in her pocket that Mom said was twenty positives out of their account. That should be more than enough for a meal, and an emergency comm burst to the receiver at the Offshoot library, if she needed one.
Chena wandered along the boardwalk between the buildings nestled into the dunes. The windows were all tinted, so she couldn’t see inside them. She thought she smelled cooking a couple of times, but she didn’t see one open door or inviting canopy.
Finally she collapsed against one of the boardwalk rails, took off her hat, and wiped at her forehead. She unslung her water bottle from her shoulder and drank down the last of it, rattling the bottle a little to make sure she’d gotten it all. She hung it back over her shoulder, jammed her hat back on her head, and closed her eyes for a minute, trying to think.
The sounds of voices reached her, not from her right, where the market and busy piers were, but from the left, and a little behind. Chena’s eyes flipped open and she turned her head toward the noise, straightening up as she did. It took her a minute to orient on the sounds, but there was laughter as well as talk. Hope rising inside her, she followed the voices.
The boardwalk wound in and out of the curves of three dunes until finally it passed by a low, open doorway into one of the hills. The laughter came out of there; so did the cooking smells. Chena’s mouth started watering, and she was in through the doorway before she knew she’d moved.