Everyone's Island

by Kris Schnee

  His hands shook as he looked through his little window to the Net. While people died back home, he was safe on an island and griping about his own little disaster! He should have been there to try to help. He wished he could climb through the screen and be a hero. Bizarrely, he imagined what his old cartoon self would have done: definitely, jump through the screen.

  Instead of Alexis' family he called Valerie. It was kind of a practice condolence call.

  "Good afternoon," said a receptionist. "It is a wonderful day at Hayflick Technologies! May I ask who this is?"

  "Garrett Fox. A friend of Val."

  "You sound upset, sir. Is there an emergency?"

  "No. I need to talk to Val."

  "She is occupied, sir. Would you like to leave a message?"

  Garrett blinked at the familiar, faintly musical voice. "You're one of her AIs?"

  "Yes, sir. I am now for sale through licensed dealers worldwide."

  Suddenly Valerie's voice broke in. "It's good to hear from you. So you made it through the hurricane."

  "Not everyone did."

  "Oh, God. Who?"

  "Alexis, and also Zephyr -- your robot, I mean. Or at least his body. I don't know how you'd classify that."

  "Wait, what? Did... Zephyr survive?"

  "The AI did. Tess made a backup."

  Val sounded relieved. "Good. About him, I mean. Sorry to hear about the rest." A pause. "Well. We barely got the rain this far north, but the footage -- some creep got video of the subway disaster and put it on the Net. To music."

  Garrett swore.

  "Yeah," said Valerie. "The President's giving a speech tonight, as though that'll fix anything. Half the country hates anything that comes out of his mouth, and half loves it."

  Garrett waved a hand in disgust at the politics. "Whatever. We're going to rebuild."

  "Your group, or the country?"

  "The country is my group. But Castor, too."

  "Good. The world needs success stories. Look, you know we're expanding, and I asked for publicity. You said that the bot's body was destroyed, right? If you could tell me how he heroically saved everyone, that would help me."

  "Actually --" That was partly true, according to Tess.

  "No details yet. The line's not secure anyway. Tell me later. There's going to be lots of work in the rebuilding effort, and you can link your own efforts to ours. Maybe even qualify for the relief money the feds will be doling out."

  "I hadn't considered that."

  Valerie said, "Take what you can get. As long as the government aims to control what I'm doing, I'm going to take some research grants. Good luck."

  Garrett felt he'd picked up part of Valerie's mercenary mood. He called Paul Samuel, the reporter, and left a message offering dramatic and harrowing information. He hoped the guy was still alive.

  Finally came the call to Mr. and Mrs. Granger. "I'm afraid I have some bad news," he rehearsed. No. He cleared his throat.

  "She died doing what she loved, and I'm not going to let that go to waste."

  He went with that wording instead. It felt like a sham, trying to watch his words and be guarded and diplomatic instead of admitting he screwed up. But Martin's fortune was at stake as well as his own, and Tess wanted to go on. Zephyr too, he supposed. Besides, what he was saying was pretty much true.

  3. Noah

  It was a burning summer day when Noah started doing stunts on the roof. The hurricane had edged past the city and torn up some buildings, but uptown, where Noah worked, nothing had changed. He had his job at the office, and a mop to clean it with.

  Noah scrubbed the floor endlessly back and forth. The tile was slick and shiny, yet there was crud that would never come out. He got a hand brush from his cleaning cart and got down on his knees to fight it.

  "What you doing, boy?" Jake boomed from the doorway. The older man's uniform was filthy and his lilac aftershave outstank the ammonia reek of the cleaning supplies.

  Noah said, "There's still gunk between the tiles."

  "Always will be. Leave it. It's quitting time and we're heading up."

  "Give me a couple minutes."

  "Yeah, whatever." Jake left him to finish his work.

  When Noah was done, with a little progress, he wandered through the empty office and walked up the stairs past the top floor. The roof of the fancy building was black tar paper and machinery, always too hot. The whole cleaning crew was up there, sitting in twos and threes. A bunch of faces black like his except for a token white guy. There was a poker game going on, two guys sprawled on the tar paper smoking weed, and a television with a courtroom show on. Noah didn't sit; he paced.

  "Finally," said Jake. "You swiping stuff down there?"

  "Cleaning."

  "Nothing worth taking anyway. Don't bother."

  "I'm not stealing." Noah stared out at the city while heat-haze rippled up his skin. Pretty much the same as ever.

  "It makes us nervous when you don't come up," Jake said. "You know?"

  Noah knew. They weren't supposed to be up here, so they'd think he was snitching if he didn't spend time hanging out on the roof with them. You didn't snitch to the police or the boss, and you definitely didn't want a reputation for it. "I'm cleaning. Come and check on me if you want. I'm up here now."

  Jake grunted and left him alone. Noah had heard that complaint before, too. He'd been coming up here and walking around since he started the job. By now Noah was bored out of his mind with the work and the routine, and he was piling up a few bucks for nothing. Maybe he should get into smoking grass to have something to do, something to spend the cash on. Blue smoke drifted up from the guys smoking, but they didn't look any happier for it, just pacified.

  The TV yammered about the storm and the places that got smashed, and how it was caused by climate change and corporate greed. Same complaints, different day.

  Noah looked downtown to a neighborhood of grey buildings, where he could be making real money. His buddy from school, Rickie, had called him the other day to invite him in, to make Noah a fellow dealer. Do it for a while, Rickie said, then quit with a fortune before anything could go wrong. The fact that Rickie used a phone told Noah his buddy was a fool. No matter how clever he was with code-phrases and other stuff, the police would be onto him before long. Still, Noah could get into the business doing small-time stuff, weed or even coke, and buy himself a black Lexus like Rickie's. He could have women, a house, vacations, some respect. He balled his fists thinking of what a dumbass he was to be scrubbing floors and toilets. He should contact Rickie in person, just for advice on how to set up.

  He killed that train of thought by putting his hands on the hot roof and kicking his body into the air. He spun upside-down so that he was on his hands, facing in from the roof.

  Jake and the others stared at him.

  Noah slipped one hand free so he could wave at them. There was a grin on his face. He hadn't screwed around like this in a while, not in public. He was supposed to fit in.

  Balanced on the roof, Noah could let all his doubts and assumptions go to hell and be himself, enjoying the rush.

  The others watched. Noah walked on his hands to the edge, and turned around. The city stood above him, the world turned upside-down, but it wasn't really different. Cars zoomed along inverted streets like slot cars. Somewhere in the sky, Rickie was getting rich. The city was like a cave roof with spikes of buildings hanging down. No different; there was still uptown and downtown. Noah could stare forever into the blue of the sky below. It was empty, lonely, and needed something to fill it. He imagined turning into a bird and flying away into space. His muscles strained and wanted to launch him through the sky.

  But he walked himself back and let himself flop onto hands and feet on the tar paper. He was playing around.

  * * *

  For days he did handstands by the edge. Bare-footed cartwheels that burned his hands and feet in rotation. Like being strapped to a wheel in hell, forever going around. But when Friday came, h
e got distracted.

  It was the TV on the roof. The other cleaning guys were doing their thing, idly watching the news. Noah had glanced at it: people standing around in the storm's wake, waiting for someone to tell them what to do.

  Noah did his exercises, limbering up after a day of scrubbing on hands and knees. Today he'd try something tougher.

  Jake spoke around the joint in his mouth. "Why you doing that?" Smoke twisted from his lips and the haze bathed and blurred them all, like none of them were real.

  Noah spat. "I got a name."

  Jake waved him off. "So what's the deal?"

  "Leave him alone," said a guy at the poker game. "He knows what he's doing." Only Jake was watching Noah; everyone else had lost interest or something.

  Noah heaved himself up onto his hands. "Got to feel like I'm doing something, you know? I can't sit there."

  Jake only grunted. The lilac-ammonia smell of him plus the weed made him stink.

  So Noah did his thing again. Back when he'd been in school he'd read a book about slaves who'd made a fighting style out of dancing, in Brazil or someplace, and Noah had thought it was cool. Since school didn't do sports except basketball, he'd asked the teachers to offer it, and waited for an answer. He would've given up but for Rickie, who'd seen him trying to do the moves and called him some nasty names. Noah started kicking his ass for that, but before he was done they were laughing and making fools of themselves, shooting kicks at each other like a couple of Chinese kung-fu stars. Nobody snitched on them for fighting, of course, even though Rickie had started bringing a knife to school in fifth grade.

  Noah tried to remember how the moves went. He got up and swayed like a wino, then pulled himself tight all at once to flip onto his head and spin halfway around. His hair mopped filth off the hot tar paper. He was the axle of the world for a moment, and then he was rolling with an easy move onto his back, kicking up to stand and flip again.

  The TV said, "...an experimental settlement on a manmade island on the sea."

  A glimpse of the TV's image spun through his eyes and into the sky. In the blue bowl of heaven he saw an island full of ships and castles, flags and sails, with waterfalls of clouds. It burned against his eyes with the force of the sun.

  Then Noah was spinning, falling...

  And like a drowning sailor he grabbed the rail in front of him. He was hanging by his hands from the building's edge, with the grey city below and the infinite blue above. His heart pounded, telling him he was stupid, stupid.

  But by God, he felt alive!

  4. Garrett

  Garrett felt dirty. He'd gotten through that conversation with the Granger family, and it didn't sound like they were going to have him arrested or sued. He felt like he deserved punishment, but no one would dispense it. He was weak, inept, dangerous, unworthy!

  He'd even called Uncle Haskell. That man's reaction was, "Work harder."

  By evening Garrett was shopping for gear. Some of the island's businesses were smashed and others still boarded up. The dive shop (called You're Going Down) was a well-lighted place full of toys and a scent of neoprene rubber. Garrett greeted the shopkeeper and browsed, list in hand. Unfortunately there was no need to replace Alexis' set of dive gear, but much of Tess' set was gone too, and other things needed fixing. A cluster of college kids chatted and rifled through the wetsuits. Hangers jingled. Above a knife display a bumper sticker asked, "Remember when sex was safe and diving was dangerous?"

  He smiled grimly and was about to ask the clerk for help when the students approached him. "Hey, are you that guy doing the farming platform?"

  Garrett blinked. "How did you know?"

  The guy who'd spoken pointed to a skittish-looking friend, who wore a fancy set of i-glasses. "You're on CelebPix."

  The whole group wore computers, Garrett now noticed. "We're here on vacation. Do you offer dive tours?"

  "There's not much to see, and it just got trashed."

  The first guy shrugged. "We've got certification for wreck diving." He saw Garrett's downcast look and said, "Platform diving. We can pay, especially if you've got a boat and someplace to sleep."

  Garrett said, "Sorry. It's too dangerous."

  Even after the guys left, the shopkeeper wouldn't let the subject drop. "What are you doing? Times are tough and people are waving money at you."

  Garrett sighed. "We got hit hard."

  "Who didn't?"

  "Someone died, okay?"

  The clerk paused. "Sorry. But look, if you can explain the danger and do your best to protect them, it'd be stupid to turn them down. It's money, and there's only so much you can coddle people, right?"

  Money again. Everyone was after it. Garrett didn't care about piling up numbers in a bank account. If he did, he'd have kept his cash and taken a vacation on an island somewhere. Strike that. Maybe skiing. What did the numbers have to do with honest work or with having a good time? Money was almost totally abstracted from the realities of food and labor, bales of grain and ingots of steel -- the things that equipped people to survive.

  But these guys were here to have fun, and he certainly could use the profit. Garrett hated how pliable and uncertain he felt, to be flip-flopping like this. Gah. Maybe he didn't know what he wanted.

  "Excuse me," he said, and hurried from the store in search of the would-be divers.

  * * *

  The boat was crowded with the four passengers and their gear, along with all the stuff Garrett had bought at the dive shop and elsewhere. They motored through bright water. With these guys aboard he felt obligated to make conversation. "So," he said, "what's with the computer gear?"

  "We're actually most of the CelebPix founders," said a guy calling himself Argus.

  Garrett had heard of the company through Valerie, who called them exhibitionists. The founders preached near-total openness of information, to the point of recording everything they saw or heard for public record. They also happened to be profiting off a gossip system that let people track celebrities. "You're recording now?"

  "Yeah."

  "I'd rather you didn't." Although he wasn't hardcore about hating surveillance like Val was, it bothered him to be studied and judged by an unseen audience. Better to be blissfully unaware of the peanut gallery. It was odd, too, to feel watched while surrounded by empty sea.

  "Why not?" asked one of Argus' friends. "What do you have to hide?"

  Garrett gave his favorite answer. "Why does the deer flee the hunter?"

  Argus laughed. "You strike me as more predator than prey."

  "They must have a low admissions standard." He thought of an old movie about a rabbit cop and a fox.

  "I'm saying you can take care of yourself. You don't need to hide behind masks and secrecy. Where's the freedom in that?"

  "I don't feel 'free' if I'm being stared at by people with the authority to make me vanish. Yeah, you're not with Homeland Security, but that 'we know what the Net knows' thing works both ways, doesn't it?"

  Argus shrugged. "Can't avoid the Eye. Besides, without our hardware, you could shoot us and no one would know."

  Garrett let the subject drop. On the horizon loomed Castor, where he could stay away from worrying about dollars and laws. The challenges there were ones he could grapple with his hands.

  * * *

  "Watch your step," he said, helping the tourists at the North Tower dock. On the radio Martin had sounded surprised but pleased to hear they were coming. The tourists stepped right up and gawked, making Garrett grin. The platform towered over them.

  The iron door at dockside opened, revealing Tess.

  "Oh, you finally got that thing unstuck?" said Garrett.

  Tess scowled. "I had to. Who're they?"

  While the tourists brought their gear inside, Tess waved Garrett to come upstairs with her. She said, "I've been useless. We've still got equipment underwater, including the desalinator."

  "Great." A big part of the bulky, expensive water-purifier had been installed outdoors. It mus
t have come loose. The lack of water would eventually ruin them, but that problem was in the category of what Uncle Haskell called second-tier trouble, the kind that could wait. "Maybe we can improvise something."

  They went downstairs, still talking. The tourist group overheard and Argus said, "You've got sunken treasure? We can find it!"

  "Don't bother. I'll have Zephyr... never mind. I could use the help."

  He'd lost the gear, so he should be the one to find it. He also didn't trust these people messing around at his station. Come to think of it, he did have an underwater camera left; he could collect some footage for Samuel if nothing else. "Give me a few minutes to get ready," he said.

  Before long, he was breathing cold nitrox and letting himself slip beneath the waves. Today the sea was warm, barely justifying a wetsuit. He was tempted to ask why the CelebPix folk didn't strip, but was afraid they would.

  The water closed around him so that he was on life support, surviving thanks to machinery. As always, he gave silent thanks to Jacques Cousteau for opening this world.

  Garrett descended to the dim plain of sand. The light rippled along his arms, the other divers, and the seabed like crazy spotlights, playing across the station's pneumatic cylinders and the various concrete jacks and stray rocks. Here was a real Atlantis. Fortunately Poseidon had left some of the kelp intact, which was impressive. Then again the green-brown-red fronds were built to withstand the eternal sloshing of normal current, which could snap steel hulls in half. The kelp towered around him as he kicked to fly over the seabed ruins.

  He followed the divers without complaint. Together they toured the area and found a tangle of sunken machinery: the desalinator. Garrett swooped down to inspect the thing. As he'd hoped, nearly all of the rugged device looked salvageable. He waved the tourists closer. With a few sign language gestures he managed to convey how the equipment should be lifted. Here in this quiet space it was satisfying to know that he could communicate. On a count of three everyone heaved up from the sand, making the bulky hardware turn and glide. Garrett found himself nearly crushed beneath the thing and flipped out of the way, eyes wide.