Queen of Angels (26 page)

50

Sitting on the lawn in front of the LPR to eat would not be wise. Besides, a cool breeze was coming off the ocean. Carol and Martin left through the rear service entrance, passing on foot between walls of concrete and down a narrow asphalt path to the woods behind the building. Martin glanced at her back as she walked ahead of him through the eucalypti. She carried a sack of sandwiches and two cartons of beer. He carried a beach blanket. She casually, gracefully kicked at a few leaves in their path, glanced over her shoulder and said, I order you to take your mind off work for a few minutes. Tall order, he replied. There should still be... There is, she said triumphantly, pointing. An open spot between the trees, covered with dry unmown grass. This area was beyond the borders controlled by the IPR gardeners. They left the path and spread the beach blanket on the grass, working in cooperative silence. They sat in unison and Carol unwrapped the sandwiches. The ocean breeze had followed them. Cool puffs blew through the tall slender trees. They were lightly dressed and Martin felt goose pimples rising on his arms. He glanced with small apprehension at the nearby branches; they were prone to fall when stressed. I cant do it, he said, grinning. What? Take my mind off work. I didnt really expect you to, she said. But its nice out here anyway. A break. So why do you think I dragged you here? she asked. You dragged me? he said, biting the sandwich, glancing up at her speculatively. Seduction. Were going to be more intimate than that soon, she reminded him. He nodded and replaced his expression of musing speculation with a pragmatic face. Were here to get things straight before we go in. Right. Ive traveled with you three times. Were very compatible in the Country. He opened her carton of beer and handed it to her. We are indeed, she said. Maybe too much so. He pondered that for a moment. Ice skaters. I know a married couple who are ice skaters. Theyre tied together off the ice as much as when they work on the ice. Thats wonderful, Carol said. I always thought we could do that. She smiled almost shyly. Well. We gave it a try. You know, those ice skaters, theyre wonderful people, but theyre not exceptionally bright. Maybe were too smart for our own good. I dont think thats it, Carol said. Then what? Were simpatico deep inside, she said. Ive never known that kind of thing with another person...Of course, Ive never gone into human Country with anyone but you. The problem is, we have too many overlays between the selves we see in Country and what we see here, now. Outside. Martin had considered that many times, always trying to find arguments around it. Carols coming to the same conclusion saddened him. That meant it was probably the truth. In a dream. . . she began, then paused to take another bite of sandwich. Have you ever had a dream where youve experienced an emotion so strong, so true, that in the dream you start to cry? Cry as if all the pain youve ever felt was being released and you were being purified? Martin shook his head. Not in my dreams, he said. Well I think we had something like that in Country a couple of times. Working so closely, like brother and sister or anima and animus. I think the part of me that is male. . . closely matches the part of you that is female. That should be good, he said. It is.. . as long as theyre pushed up against each other. In Country. But you know your personality in Country differs from what I see out here, Out front. Thats inevitable, he said. Still, youve seen what Im really like. She laughed then shook her head sadly. That isnt enough. The overlays. Remember them. You know as well as I what were made ofthe whole ball of wax. Top to bottom, all the layers. He conceded that much. But I dont find them a hindrance ... your overlays I mean. I always keep sight of the self I meet in Country. Martin, I irritated the hell out of you. He gave her a startled look. Isnt that. . I mean I could tell I really bothered you. I presume I bothered you, as well. Yes. We just wereflt sympatico outside. We couldnt get in the spin together. You know I tried, we tried. Transference. Cross transference, he suggested vaguely. Were going to be together again, she continued, gazing at him steadily and sternly. and God knows of all times, we have to have our act together now. He agreed with a slow nod. Ive been feeling this friction between us, she said. Not friction. Fading hope, Martin corrected. Ive been very realistic, she continued. I hope you are,

Oh, not so realistic, he confessed with a sigh. He did not want to spread his thoughts out before her, give in to that hopeless urge to arouse her pity by telling her how lonely it had been in the past year and how difficult and how many times he had thought of her in terms of a home and peace and tranquility. Carol, among her many overlays, kept a barrier to be erected especially in case of pity. Still, moth to a flame, he circled in his thoughts around that past misery and realized why he had allowed himself to be Fausted. Anything new was better than self pity. Do you think it would be wrong to go up Country together again? she asked. Too late to reconsider. Youre the best I can hope for on such short notice. Martin looked at her to see if that might have stung a bit. Then, shaking his head and grinning, Or the best I could hope to find anytime. Thats a problem, though. Not such a problem, he said with resolve, folding the sandwich wrapper meticulously. Im a mensch. Ive stood up to bigger disappointments. And I didnt really think we could make it work again. No? she said. He shook his head. But I bad to try. Lets change the subject. You went into Jills Country. What was that like? Carol leaned forward, shifting gears quickly and gladly. Her sudden brightness and enthusiasm stung him; she loved to talk this with him, work with him professionally and use his surface self this way. She would soon mesh with him in deeper intimacy than that experienced by any married couple but there would be no in between. No calm domesticity. None of what he had half consciously been considering behind the work; the quiet hours in a cabin somewhere snow outside reading slate news watching LitVid. Smiling -at each other in peace and constancy. It was wonderful, she said. Quite extraordinary, and nothing like.., not really at all like going into a human. Jill isnt self aware. Its brilliant, the greatest thinker in the world probably a better mind than any individual human. But it doesnt know who it is. So Ive gathered. Still, in her early years, its early years, Jill managed to assemble something remarkably like Country. Her programmers discovered it a few years ago, and Samuel John Baker hes the third primary designer and programmer, below Roger Atkins and Caroline Pastorhe called me in after IPR was closed. Id known him in school. Hed taken psych med and therapy for a couple of years as supplement to thinker theory. Ive had a fair amount of thinker theory... You know that. We worked together to see why Jill had a Country. In its early phase, fifteen years ago, Jill had been based on deep profiles of the five main designers, Atkins, Pastor, Baker, Joseph Wu, and George Mobus. Theyd submitted to hypothalamic therapy grade surgical nano scans, back when that was a fairly experimental procedure. They distilled the patterns theyd found without really knowing what they meant, and tried incorporating them into Jill. Jill wasnt called that back then. Atkins used that name as a whim later. An old girlfriend or something. Martin listened intently. What they did was like throwing dead meat into a centrifuge and hoping it would grow back into an animal again. Real Frankenstein desperation. Or maybe it was brilliance. Anyway It worked, Martin said. After a fashion. We can guess now why it worked at all they were using personality organization algorithms, and theyre robust and almost universal. Put those kinds of patterns into any appropriate free energy medium and theyll start afresh. Jill acquired something from all her designers. As it turns out, it wasnt enough to spark her into self-awareness. But combined with what she already had, a tremendous thinker capacity and memory store, it added real depth and made her something unlike any thinker created before. Even AXIS? Now thats a good question. AXIS is simpler than Jill, by necessity. But AXIS is based on personality scans of Atkins and the others, as well; earlier, less complete scans. Atkins claims that AXIS will probably become self aware before Jill does. He says that in private, anyway. He thinks they might have cluttered up poor Jill with too many conflicting algorithms, however much depth and quality they gave it. Sounds mystical. Oh, it is and sometimes he is, too. Atkins. Very moralistic. But he honestly believes that AXIS is a purer case. So how about the Country. The algorithms Jill acquired automatically search for a substrate of mental internal language. Jill didnt have any. So the algorithms began making some up, after the fact. The whole process must have taken nine or ten years, so Jill was hardly an infant, but the algorithms began soaking up details from memory and sensorium, working backward to create a kind of Country. When Mobus and Baker found this, they thought it was a disaster. They thought theyd found a self generated virus in the thinker. Martin laughed. Ill bet. They tried to lock it off, but they couldnt. Not without closing down Jills higher functions. Finally, after a year of worry and investigation, Baker called on me. Hed decided maybe they really had a Country as youd described. They did. Why didnt he call on me? Because you were up to your neck and he couldnt justify the publicity. Martin made a wry face. So what was it like? Sweet, actually, Carol said. Uncomplicated and direct. A thinkers land of faerie. Simple images of human beings, especially the programmers and designers as first perceived by Jill. I was reminded of old twentieth century computer graphics. Quaint, slick, clean and mathematical. Lots of abstractions and base thinker design language given visual shape. Lots of non-visual spaces difficult to interpret. Visiting Jills basement made me feel as Roger Atkins mustI really came to like her. It. Martin, his curiosity appeased, dismissed this with a restless nod. Doesnt sound like a complex Country, though. Carol pursed her lips. Not really, I suppose. So you havent gone up Country since the last time we did it together. No, I suppose youd say I havent. But I spent over a dozen hours in triplex. That should count as exercise at least. Please dont think Im belittling the work youve done. You must know that if I couldnt have you along with me, I probably wouldnt have agreed to this. Probably, she repeated wryly. He lifted his eyebrow and looked down at the blanket. Have you given any thought to the possibility that well be in danger? Not really, she said. What makes you think so? First of all, Goldsmith. Hes rough ocean beneath thick clouds. We only see the peaceful cloudscape. But what really worries me is not having a buffer. Well be inside each other, you and I and Goldsmith, fully exposed to Country conditions. Realtime. No delay. She reached her hand out and grasped his shoulder. Sounds like the real thing to me. Quite an adventure. Martin looked at her with concern, hoping she was not being too confident; worry might serve as a kind of defense up Country. Have we got everything straight? I think so. Then lets cut our break short and get back to work. All right. Thank you. For what? he asked, puzzled. As they stood, she hugged him tightly and held him at arms length. For being understanding and being a colleague, she said. Very important, he muttered as they folded the blanket and picked up the empty beer cartons. Damn right, Carol said.

51

Tropical night, blaze of stars, rushing in a black limousint driven by ghosts through a black countryside, seated across from a brooding and unhappy man who had said not a word for the last half an hour, Mary Choy watched the procession of villages fields scrub more villages, black asphalt road. The limousine moved smoothly up steep grades onto curving mountain highways. She had touched her pistol often enough to find it familiar and not very reassuring; if she had to use it very likely she would die anyway. So why had Reeve given it to her? Because no pd enjoyed the thought of going in harms way absolutely powerless. She thought of Shleges mistress in the comb Selector jiltz firing wildly with her flechettes. We are getting near, Soulavier said. He leaned to look through the windows, rubbed his hands together, bowed his head and rubbed his eyes and cheeks, making preparations for something he would not enjoy. He lifted his head and regarded her sadly, steadily. Near to what? Mary asked. He didnt answer for a moment. Then he turned away. Something special, he said. Mary clenched her teeth to control a chill. Id like to know what Im getting myself into. You get yourself into nothing, Soulavier said. Your bosses get you into things. You are a lackey. Do Americans still use that word? He glanced at her in imperious query, nose raised. You have no control over your fate. Nor do I. You have made your commitments as have I. You follow your path. As do I. That all sounds terribly fateful, Mary said. She contemplated again pulling the pistol and forcing him to bring the limousine to a stop and let her out. Weak contemplation, no action. She could not lose herself in the countryside for long; it was no problem finding a single lost human today or even selecting an individual out of a crowd; no problem even for Hispaniola, twenty years behind the times. Soulavier asked the limousine something in Creole. The limousine replied in a light feminine voice. Two more minutes, he said to Mary. You are going to the house of Colonel Sir in the mountains, which mountains do not matter. She felt relief. That did not sound like a death sentence; it sounded more like diplomatic card games. Why are you unhappy, then? she asked. Hes your chosen leader. I am loyal to Colonel Sir, Soulavier said. I am not unhappy to visit his house. I have sadness for those who oppose him, such as yourself. Mary shook her head solemnly. Ive done nothing to oppose him. Soulavier waved that aside contemptuously, snapping, You are part of all his troubles. He is beset from all sides. A man such as he, noble as he, should not face the gratitude of baying wild dogs. Mary softened her voice. I am no more a cause of his troubles than you are. I came here seeking a suspect in a crime. A friend of Colonel Sirs. Yes.. Your United States accuses him of harboring a criminal. I dont believe Believe nothing then, Soulavier said. We are here. They passed between broad stone and concrete pillars, missing the ponderous wrought iron gate by inches as it swung wide. Torchlight beams burst out all around. Soulavier pulled out identity papers. The limousine door sprung open automatically and three guards thrust in their rifles. They regarded her with viciously wise slitted eyes, shrewd, intensely skeptical. Soulavier handed them the papers as they glanced at Mary with an occasional murmur of masculine incredulity and admiration. Soulavier exited first and held out his hand, fingers waggling, demanding hers. She emerged without accepting his help and blinked at the torchlights and searchlight beams. A house? Guard towers all around as in a prison or a concentration camp. She turned and saw a gothic gingerbread monstrosity flanking the wide brick and asphalt courtyard. One vast many pointed curlicue of wood and carved stone and wrought iron, painted a greenish blue with white framed windows and doors like clown eyes and mouths. Mary observed that all the guards wore their black berets tilted to one side and were dressed in black and red. All wore on their broad lapels fingersized pins of a ruby eyed skeletal man in top hat and tails. Soulavier stepped forward after conversing with a cluster of guards. Please give me your weapon, he said quietly. Without hesitating she reached into her pocket, produced the pistol and handed it to Soulavier, who regarded it with some curiosity before passing it on. And your hairbrush, he said. Its in the luggage. Oddly this revelation and disarmament seemed to cheer her. It removed one more level of decision making. Things were getting sufficiently in a rough to break the expected chain of her emotions. We are not simpletons, Soulavier said as guards removed her suitcase from the trunk and knocked it open with rifles. One tall muscular guard with a wise bulldog face removed the hairbrush, held it up to torchlight, fumbled the cap open and sniffed at the nano within. Tell them not to touch it, Mary suggested. It could be harmful to their skin if they touch it. Soulavier nodded and spoke to the guards in Creole. The bulldog guard capped the brush and slipped it into a plastic bag. Come with me, Soulavier instructed. His own nervousness seemed to have passed. He even smiled at her. As they approached the steps of the front entrance to the house he said, I hope you appreciate my courtesy. Courtesy? To leave you the feeling of being armed, resourceful, until the last minute. Oh. The ornate carved oak double doors opened at their approach. Beyond them armored steel vault doors slipped back into recesses. Thank you, Henri, she said. You are welcome. You will be checked again for weapons, rather thoroughly. I regret this. Mary felt socially if not spatially disoriented. Giddy. Thank you for the warning, she said. It is nothing. You will meet with Colonel Sir and his wife. You will have dinner with them. I do not know whether I will accompany you. Will you be searched for weapons as well, Henri? Yes. He watched her face closely for signs of irony. He found none; she meant no irony. Mary felt acutely the inebriation of danger. But not as thoroughly as they will search you, he concluded. Past the vault doors, two women in black and red took her firmly by the arms and led her into a cloakroom. Remove your clothes please, a short, muscularly plump woman with a stern face demanded. Mary did so and they tapped her on the shoulders and hips, stooping to inspect her skin for suspicious blemishes. They felt the gray crease in her buttocks with murmurs of dissatisfaction. Doctor Sumpler will certainly hear about this, Mary thought, now knowing whether to laugh or scream. They turned her quickly, warm dry fingers. You are not noir, said the short woman. She smiled mechanically. I must inspect your privates. Surely a machine, a detector Mary began, but the woman broke off her protest with a sharp shake of her head and a tug on Marys wrist. No machines. Your privates, she said. Bend please. Mary bent over. Blood pounded in her head. Is this the standard treatment for dinner guests? None of the women answered. The short woman snapped on a rubber glove, allowed a finger to be covered with translucent gel from a tube and inspected Marys genitals and anus with quick professional probes. Put your clothes back on please, she ordered. Your bladder is tight. After you are dressed, I will take you to the restroom. Mary dressed quickly, shivering in her rediscovered anger. The disorientation had passed. She hoped that somehow Yardley would come to regret what she had just suffered. In the hallway again the short woman led her to a restroom on one side, waited for her to relieve herself and escorted her into a rotunda. Soulavier rejoined her, face composed, hands still, and they stood beneath an enormous chandelier. Mary was no judge of decor but she suspected a French influence: early nineteenth century perhaps. Bluegray walls with white trim. Furniture more fanciful than useful, an atmosphere dominated by the rich and richly oppressive past. Not what she had been led to expect in Yardleys home; she had visualized more of the hunting lodge or the dark tones of an English study. Madame Yardley, nErmione LaLouche, will meet with us, Soulavier said. The guards stood ill at ease behind them, the short woman almost at Marys elbow. She is from Jacmel. A true lady of our island. There are no ladies or gentlemen on Hispaniola, Mary thought. She came remarkably close to saying it aloud; Soulavier glanced at her with warm slightly hurt eyes as if he had heard. He smiled uncertainly and stiffened. A painfully thin black woman with high cheekbones and clear staring eyes, at least fifteen centimeters shorter than Mary, entered the rotunda. She wore a long green empire gown and softly, languidly allowed her gloved hand to rest on the upheld arm of a gray haired mulatto in black livery. The mulatto smiled and nodded at Soulavier, the female guards, Mary, all pleasantry and obsequiousness. Madame Yardley hardly seemed aware until she stood directly before them. Bonsoir et bienverni.c, Monsieur et Mademoiselle, the gray haired servant said, his voice resonant as if issuing from a profound cavern. Madame Yardley is here. She will speak to you. The woman seemed to come alive, jerking and smiling, focusing on Mary. Pleasant to meet you, she said, words thickly accented. Pardon my English. Hilaire speaks for me. The servant nodded with broad enthusiasm. Please accompany us to the salon. We will take drinks and hors doeuvres there. So pleased is Madame to have you as her guests. Follow us, please. Hilaire turned Madame Yardley around with a waltzing step and she glanced over her shoulder at Mary, nodding. Mary wondered whether the woman was starving herself to death or if Yardley preferred emaciated women. The Hispaniolan exiles had told Mary that Colonel Sir kept mistresses. Perhaps Madame Yardley was purely ceremonial. The salon was overwhelmingly elegant, a smothering, mal de t mix of chinoiserie and African motifs. Another even larger chandelier glittered over an enormous hand-woven Chinese rug, sufficiently worn to be centuries old. A drum as tall as a manan assotorstood on a pedestal in one corner. Ebony sculptures of bearded men lined the walls, tall shortlegged figures with narrow heads and swayed backs, gods, devils. A huge brass bowl filled with water and floating flowers stood in the corner diagonal to the assotor. This elegance countered all she had been told: that Yardley preferred simple quarters and was not ostentatious. The Samedi pins on his guards: did he espouse vodoun as well? Madame Yardley sat at one end of a soie du chine upholstered couch. Hilaire deftly came around behind her and released her hand, which she then used to lightly pat the space next to her, smiling at Mary. Donnez-vous Ia peine de vous asseoir. Please, she said, her voice childlike and spooky. Madame invites you to sit, Hilaire said. Monsieur Soulavier, please take that seat there. He pointed with a multiply ringed finger at a chair fully five meters across the pastel-azure sea of carpet. Soulavier obeyed. Mary took her assigned position. Madame Yardley wishes to talk with you both about circumstances on our island. What followed was a puppet show conversation of mixed French and broken English from Madame Yardley accompanied by smoothly extrapolated, even psychic English translations from Hilaire. Madame Yardley expressed concern about the difficulties around the island; what did Monsieur Soulavier have to report? Soulavier told her little more than what he had told Mary, that Dominicans and other groups were expressing dissatisfaction, that troops had been called out to patrol. This seemed to satisfy. Madame Yardley turned to Mary now. Hilaire, standing behind her with his hands on the back of the couch, followed suit. Was she enjoying the stay? Was she being treated well by all Hispaniolans? Mary shook her head. No, Madame, she replied. I am being held against my will. A tiny candle of concern in Madames eyes but no end to the smile, the childlike inquiry. That will come to an end, we are sure; these difficulties are very upsetting for us all. Would that all could live in harmony. Is Mademoiselle Choy a noiriste perhaps, choosing such a lovely design for herself? 1 meant no disrespect for black people. I simply found this design attractive. Hilaire leaned forward, taking a more direct role. Do you know what noirism is? Madame Yardley wonders whether you in fact support by your choice of design the political movement whereby blacks around the world have found their pride. Mary considered that for a moment. No. I sympathize but my design was purely aesthetic. Then perhaps Mademoiselle Choy is a spiritual noiriste, an instinctive supporter, like my husband, Colonel Sir? Mary conceded that much might be true. Madame Yardley looked to Soulavier, asked him if perhaps Colonel Sir should adapt a new form, take on color as well as soul. She seemed to be jesting. Soulavier laughed and leaned forward to think about this, head tilted to one side, mocking serious consideration. He shook his head violently, leaned back and laughed again. Madame Yardley concluded by asking pardon for her am pearance. She was fasting, she explained, and would be breaking her fast only this evening. She would be drinking only fruit juices and eating only bread and a little plantain and potato, perhaps some chicken broth. Hilaire held out his hand, Madame Yardley topped it with her own, rose delicately, nodded to Mary and Soulavier. Dinner will be served, Hilaire said. Follow, please. The dining room was over fifteen meters long, its oak parquet floor supporting an immense rectangular table. Chairs lined the walls on all sides, as if the table might be cleared away to allow dancing. The sensual numbing deepened as she sat on the left of Madame Yardley before an elegant antique place setting on a damask tablecloth. Fresh orchids and fruitMary recognized mangoes, papaya, guava, star fruitfilled a gold ceramic bowl in the center of the table, with ancillary smaller bowls placed a meter on each side. Hilaire sat beside and behind his mistress; he would not eat here. Mary wondered when the servant ate or performed any other human functions, if he attended Madame Yardley all the ama. Madame Yardley slowly and painfully made herself comfortable, her face reflecting numerous small complaints before she was composed and prepared to continue. She bowed slightly to Mary as if making her acquaintance for the first time. Her eyes were so large, staring. Starving. Otherworldly. Indeed, Madame Yardley looked around the table with the same fixed smile, regarding each empty chair as if it were occupied by an intimate acquaintance deserving some special acknowledgment. Soulavier sat across from them. Madame Yardleys gaze fell on him for less time than on one of the empty seats. She turned back to Mary and in French and Creole, speaking through Hilaire, asked