Islands in the Net (19 page)

“We have no quarrel with that,” Laura said.

“Sure you do,” Prentis said. “You don't want it stripped down and cheap. You want it expensive, and controlled, and totally safe. You don't want peasants and slum kids with that kind of technical power. You're afraid of it.” He pointed to the machete. “But you can't have it both ways. All tech is dangerous—even with no moving parts.”

Long silence. Laura turned to Andrei. “Thanks for bringing us down here. You've brought us in touch with a genuine problem.” She turned to Prentis. “Thank you, Brian.”

“Sure,” said Prentis. His gaze flickered upward from her breasts. She tried to smile at him.

Prentis set the glue down carefully. “You want to tour the plant?”

“I'd love to,” David said.

They left the office, reassuming their masks. They went down among the workers. The crew didn't look much like “slum kids”—they were mostly middle-aged cadres, most of them women. They wore hair nets and their paper overalls had the shiny look of old bakery bags. They worked in twenty-four-hour shifts—a third of the crew was asleep, in soundproof acoustic cubicles, clustered under the giant mural like Styrofoam barnacles.

Backed by Millie Syers, David asked alert questions about the equipment. Any containment spills? No. Souring trouble? Just the usual throwbacks to the wild state—tailored bacteria did tend to revert, after millions of generations. And wild bugs wouldn't produce—they just ate goop and freeloaded. Left to multiply at the expense of the worthy, these backsliders would soon take over, so they were scorched from the tanks without mercy.

What about the rest of the
Charles Nogues
, beyond the bulkheads? Why, she was full of factories like this from bow to stern, all safety-sealed so spoiling couldn't spread. Lots of careful slurry-pumping back and forth between units—they used the old tanker pumps, still in fine condition. The ship's containment systems, built to prevent petroleum gas explosions, were ideal for bio-hazard work.

Laura quizzed some of the women. Did they like the work? Of course—they had all kinds of special perks, credit-card boosts whenever they beat the quotas, TV links with their families, special rewards for successful new recipes.… Didn't they feel cooped up down here? Heavens no, not compared to the crowded government yards down-the-island. A whole month vacation time, too. Of course, it did itch a bit when you got that skin bacteria back.…

They toured the plant for over an hour, climbing bamboo stiles over the hull's six-foot reinforcement girders. David spoke to Prentis. “You said something about bathrooms?”

“Yeah, sorry.
E. coli
, that's a native gut bacterium.… If it gets loose, we have a lot of trouble.”

David shrugged, embarrassed. “The food upstairs was good, I ate a lot. Uh, my compliments to the chef.”

“Thanks,” Prentis said.

David touched his glasses. “I think I've scanned pretty much everything.… If Atlanta has questions, could we get in touch?”

“Uhmmm …” Prentis said. Andrei broke in. “That's a bit difficult, David.” He didn't elaborate.

David forgot and offered to shake hands again. When they left, they could see Prentis stalking behind the office glass, pumping his spray gun.

They retraced their steps up the catwalk. Andrei was pleased. “I'm glad you met Dr. Prentis. He's very dedicated. But he does get a bit lonely for his native countrymen.”

“He does seem to lack a few of the amenities,” David said.

“Yeah,” Laura said. “Like a girl friend.”

Andrei was surprised. “Oh, Dr. Prentis is married. To a Grenadian worker.”

“Oh,” Laura said, feeling the gaffe. “That must be wonderful.… How about you, Andrei? Are you married?”

“Only to the Movement,” Andrei said. He wasn't kidding.

The sun was setting by the time they returned to their safehouse. It had been a long day. “You must be tired, Carlotta,” Laura said as they climbed stiffly from the three-wheeler. “Why don't you come in and have supper with us?”

“It's nice to ask,” Carlotta said, smiling sweetly. Her eyes glistened and there was a soft rosy glow to her cheeks. “But I can't make it tonight. I have Communion.”

“You're sure?” Laura said. “Tonight's good for us.”

“I can come by later this week. And bring my date, maybe.”

Laura frowned. “I might be testifying then.”

Carlotta shook her head. “No, you won't. I haven't even testified yet.” She reached from the driver's seat and patted the baby's tote. “Bye, little one. Bye, y'all. I'll call or something.” She gunned the engine, kicking gravel, and drove through the gates.

“Typical,” Laura said.

They walked up onto the porch. David pulled his key card. “Well, Communion, that sounds pretty important—”

“Not Carlotta, she's just a klutz. I mean the Bank. It's a ploy, don't you see? They're gonna make us cool our heels here in this big old barn, instead of letting me make my case. And they're calling Carlotta to testify first, just to rub it in.”

David paused. “You think so, huh?”

“Sure. That's why Sticky was giving us the runaround earlier.” She followed him into the mansion. “They're working on us, David; this is all part of a plan. That tour, everything.… What smells so good?”

Rita had dinner waiting. It was stuffed pork with peppers and parsley, Creole ratatouille, hot baked bread and chilled rum soufflé for dessert. In a candlelit dining room with fresh linen and flowers. It was impossible to refuse. Not without offending Rita. Someone they had to share the house with, after all.… At the very least, they had to try a few bites, just for politeness sake.… And after all that nasty scop, too.… It was all so delicious it stung. Laura ate like a wolverine.

And no dishes to wash. The servants cleared everything, stacking it onto little rosewood trolleys. They brought brandy and offered Cuban cigars. And they wanted to take the baby too. Laura wouldn't let them.

There was a study upstairs. It wasn't much of a study—no books—just hundreds of videotapes and old-fashioned plastic records, but they retired to the study with their brandies anyway. It seemed the proper thing to do, somehow.

Lots of old framed photos on the study's walls. Laura looked them over while David shuffled curiously through the tapes. It was clear who Mr. Gelli, the former owner, was. He was the puffy-faced hustler throwing a good-buddy arm over vaguely familiar, vaguely repulsive Vegas show-biz types.… Here he was toadying up to some snake-eyed goofball in a long white dress—with a start, Laura realized it was the Pope.

David loaded a tape. He sat on the couch—an overstuffed monster in purple velour—and fired up the TV with a clunky remote. Laura joined him. “Find something?”

“Home movies, I think. He's got lots—I picked out the most recent.”

A party at the mansion. Big ugly cake in the dining room, smorgasbord groaning with food. “I shouldn't have eaten so much,” Laura said.

“Look at that jerk in the party hat,” David said. “That's a mad doctor, for sure. Can you see that, Atlanta?”

Faint squeaking came from Laura's earpiece; she was wearing it loose, and it dangled. She felt a little funny about having shared the earpiece with Carlotta; kind of like sharing a toothbrush, or like sharing a … well, best not to think about that one. “Why don't you take that off, David?” She removed her own glasses and pointed them at the door, guarding them from intruders. “We're safe here, right? No worse than the bedroom.”

“Well …” David froze the tape and got up. He punched an intercom button by the door. “Hello. Um, Jimmy? Yeah, I want you to bring us that plug-in clock by the bedside. Right away. Thanks.” He returned to the couch.

“You shouldn't do that,” Laura said.

“You mean order them around like they were servants? Yeah, I know. Very non-R. I got some ideas though—I want to talk to Personnel about it, tomorrow.…” Discreet knock at the door. David took the clock from Jimmy. “No, nothing else … okay, go ahead, bring the bottle.” He plugged his headset into the clock. “How's that, Atlanta?”

[“You might as well point one set at the TV,”] the clock told him loudly. [“Watching that door's pretty boring.”] Laura didn't recognize the guy's voice; some Rizomian on the night shift, she'd given up caring at this point.

The tape spooled on; David had muted the sound. “Lotta Anglos at this gig,” David commented. “I miss the Rastas.”

Laura sipped her brandy. It wrapped her mouth in molten gold. “Yeah,” she said, inhaling over the glass. “There's a lot of different factions on this island, and I don't think they get along too well. There's the Movement revolutionaries … and the voodoo mystics … and the high-techies … and the low-techies …”

“And the street poor, just looking for food and a roof …” Knock knock knock; the brandy had arrived. David brought it to the couch. “You realize this could be poisoning us.” He refilled their snifters.

“Yeah, but I felt worse when I left Loretta behind with Carlotta, she's been so good since then, I was afraid Carlotta'd slipped her some kind of happy-pill.…” She kicked off her shoes and curled her legs beneath her. “David, these people know what they're doing. If they want to poison us they could do it with some speck of something we would never even see.”

“Yeah, I kept telling myself that, while I ate the ratatouille.” Some rich drunk had collared the cameraman and was shouting gleefully into the lens. “Look at this clown! I forgot to mention the local faction of pure criminal sleazebags.… Takes all kinds to make a data haven, I guess.”

“It doesn't add up,” Laura said, sinking easily into brandy-fueled meditation. “It's like beachcombing after a storm, all kinds of Net flotsam thrown up on the golden Grenadian shore.… So if you push on these people, maybe they go neatly to pieces, if you hit the right flaw. But too much pressure, and it all welds together and you got a monster on your hands. I was thinking today—the old Nazis, they used to believe in the Hollow Earth and all kinds of mystical crap.… But their trains ran on time and their state cops were efficient as hell.…”

David took her hand, looking at her curiously. “You're really into this, aren't you?”

“It's important, David. The most important thing we've ever done. You bet I'm involved. All the way.”

He nodded. “I noticed you seemed a little tense when I grabbed your ass in the elevator.”

She laughed, briefly. “I was nervous … it's good to relax here, just us.” Some moron in a bow tie was singing on a makeshift stage, some slick-haired creep pausing to make wisecracks and snappy in-joke banter.… Camera kept moving to men in the audience, Big Operators laughing at themselves with the bogus joviality of Big Operators laughing at themselves.…

David put his arm around her. She leaned her head onto his shoulder. He wasn't taking this as seriously as she did, she thought. Maybe because he hadn't been standing there with Winston Stubbs …

She cut off that ugly thought and had more brandy. “You should have picked an earlier tape,” she told him. “Maybe we could get a look at the place before old Gelli brought his decorators in.”

“Yeah, I haven't seen our pal Gelli in any of this. Must be his nephew's party, or something.… Whoa!”

The tape had switched scenes. It was later now, outside, by the pool. A late-night swim party, lots of torches, towels … and opulent young women in bikini bottoms. “Holy cow,” David said in his comedian's voice. “Naked broads! Man, this guy really knows how to live!”

A crowd of young women, next to nude. Sipping drinks, combing wet hair with long, sensuous strokes and their elbows out. Lying full length, drowsy or stoned, as if expecting a tan by torchlight. A full-color assortment of them, too. “Good to see some black people have finally shown up,” Laura said sourly.

“Those girls must have crashed the gig,” David said. “No room in that gear for invites.”

“Are they hookers?”

“Gotta be.”

Laura paused. “I hope this isn't going to turn into an orgy or anything.”

“No,” David said callously, “look at the way the camera follows their tits. He wouldn't be getting this excited if there was anything hot and heavy coming up.” He set his empty glass down. “Hey, you can see part of the old back garden in that shot—” He froze the image.

[“Hey,”] the clock protested.

“Sorry,” David said. The tape kept rolling. Men enjoyed seeing women this way—rolling hips, jiggle, that soft acreage of tinted female skin. Laura thought about it, the brandy hitting her. It didn't do much for her. But despite David's pretended nonchalance she could feel him reacting a little. And in some odd, vicarious way that itself was a little exciting.

For once there was no one looking at them, she thought wickedly. Maybe if they curled up on the couch and were very, very quiet …

A slim brown girl with ankle bracelets mounted the diving board. She sauntered to the end, bent gracefully, and went into a handstand. She held it for five long seconds, then plunged head-first.… “Jesus Christ!” David said. He froze it in mid-splash.

Laura blinked. “What's so special about—”

“Not her, babe. Look.” He ran it backward; the girl flew up feet-first, then grabbed the board. She bent at the waist, strolled backward … She froze again. “There,” David said. “There to the far right, by the water. It's Gelli. Lying in that lawn chair.”

Laura stared. “It sure is … he looks thinner.”

“Look at him move.…” The girl walked the board … and Gelli's head was wobbling. A spastic movement, compulsive, with his chin rolling in a ragged figure eight, and his eyes fixed on nothing at all. And then he stopped the wobbling, caught it somehow, leering with the pain of effort. And his hand came up, a wizened hand like a bundle of sticks, bent down acutely at the wrist.