Altered Seasons_MONSOONRISE

by Paul Briggs

  After a few minutes, Isabel was starting to get really exasperated. She couldn’t talk to anybody, get a drink or even be alone with her thoughts. Then it went on for another few minutes. And then another few. I agreed to be a walking display counter. This is no time to start complaining.

  Then they started talking about other things—mostly gossip about friends of theirs who didn’t happen to be here. One of them was complaining that her husband was on the ShameList over some editorials that used to appear in a publication he owned. The other women nodded their heads sadly.

  Somewhere nearby, Sandy was going on at length about a deal she was working on. “Between the typhoon and the flood, the Chinese government needed some money really fast, so they sold a bunch of U.S. Treasury bonds for around two hundred seventy-five billion. Thing is, they should have gotten more. But you know how it is—when you’re hard up for cash and everybody knows it, suddenly you’re not doing so well in the negotiations.

  “When Congress heard about it, they thought it was on purpose. They were all like ‘Oh no! We’re under attack! This is a plot by the crafty Chinese! They’re selling our bonds cheap to undermine our finances!’” Sandy snorted. “Now as it happens, I know a thing or two about being under attack by the Chinese—specifically the Tanqiji Group—and if those guys were any craftier… they’d invent some shit instead of just ripping off my patents, and let me tell you, Congress was no help there.

  “But now they think China’s declared economic war on us, so it’s a different story. Now they’re ready to treat De L’Air like Beijing treats Tanqiji, as a national asset. Between that and the fact that Tanqiji lost half its physical plant to the typhoon, we were able to buy out their contract with Boeing. Our product’s better anyway. So there’s your stock tip of the day, if you’re looking for one.”

  “Really, Sandy,” came a voice from behind. “Shop talk? On a night like this?” About that time, the women around Isabel started retreating like buzzards when an eagle shows up.

  Isabel turned around, and almost gulped. She could count on her fingers the number of politicians she could recognize by sight, but holy shit this was Morgan.

  The governor had gone for a simpler outfit than Sandy’s. There was a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. It was made of silk, or something like it—white, but rippling with purple and silver shadows like mother-of-pearl. Underneath that she had on a unitard made of fabric even blacker than Isabel’s velvet, so dark it hurt the eyes a little. The effect was to make her seem slightly unreal, like a woman-shaped hole in space. Between the second and third fingers of her left hand she was holding a gold-plated Respier, a complex little vaping device about a foot long and the width of a pencil.

  Sandy and the governor both stepped toward Isabel. Morgan fiddled with a couple of the minuscule valves on the Respier, making some slight adjustment in the proportions of whatever herbal cocktail was in its compartments. Then she brought the end to her lips and drew a deep breath.

  “Still in trim, I see,” said Sandy. “What’s your diet this year?”

  Morgan paused to finish inhaling before she spoke. “Carbs first thing in the morning, protein the rest of the day, nothing after six p.m. Why change a winning formula?”

  Sandy turned to Isabel. “Brooke used to be vegan, back when meat was cheaper,” she said. Isabel nodded. In a world of meatless Mondays, and for most people one or two other days of the week as well, a vegan diet wasn’t much of a status symbol any more.

  Paying no attention to this, the governor leaned in to look at the diamonds. Her gaze moved from one earring to the other, passing over Isabel’s face like it was a blank spot on the wall. Isabel noticed that she was wearing light-blue diamond studs in her ears—probably more of Sandy’s work. “So this is your spring line,” she said, sounding none too enthusiastic.

  “Yes, indeed,” said Sandy. Isabel had been expecting her to start gushing about the colors again, but for the moment she was keeping her cool.

  Morgan took off her shawl and draped it over one arm. Then, without hesitation, she lifted the necklace off Isabel and put it on her own shoulders. Isabel glanced nervously at Sandy, thinking can she do that? Sandy seemed calm, so it was probably okay. Of course it’s okay—what do you think, she’s going to steal them in the middle of a party? And by the way, have you noticed that these two don’t seem exactly friendly?

  The governor looked at herself in a nearby mirror. Her lip curled. “I liked the ones you introduced in spring—the Horizon and Snowshadow,” she said. “They were subtle. Just a hint of color.”

  “This year I’m feeling more confident.”

  Morgan nodded. As she was putting the necklace back where it belonged, her breath brushed over Isabel’s face like warm feathers. It smelled of whatever was in that Respier—marijuana, mint, lavender, clove, and some things Isabel couldn’t identify.

  Isabel felt her face turning pink and her heart speeding up. Supposedly, Morgan was around fifty, but even up close she didn’t look older than forty-five. Less than that, really. If she’d had plastic surgery, it had been really good plastic surgery. Even her hands didn’t show her age—Olivia in Sandy’s office could have learned something from her.

  And it had been years since a woman had turned Isabel on this much.

  “Well, I’m sure they’ll be very popular.”

  “That is the name of the game.”

  With that, Morgan was gone. Isabel shut her eyes, forcing herself not to stare longingly in the governor’s direction as she went to go look bored at some other people.

  East Antarctica had changed very little over the last few years. The East Antarctic Ice Sheet had lost a little here and there around the edges, at the Totten Glacier and other places, but in the center, it had grown thicker, offsetting the losses of ice elsewhere in the world. In the heart of Antarctica, rising temperatures—typically rising from minus twenty-five centigrade to minus twenty at the height of summer—only meant slightly more snow.

  The West Antarctic Ice Sheet was a different story. The coming of summer had brought unexpected warmth to this portion of the continent, raising the temperature above freezing almost everywhere north of the 80th parallel. To the satellites above, the perfect white sheet appeared to be spattered with flecks of impossible blue, as pools of meltwater formed and expanded. Some of these pools expanded downward, forming the bore-holes called moulins as they melted their way down to the bottom of the ice sheet.

  * * *

  Sandy learned in close to Isabel and smiled. “You can go off duty now,” she said in a low voice. “I think everybody here who wants to look at the new diamonds already did. If anyone wants a second look, you know what to do.”

  With that taken care of, Isabel didn’t really know what to do with herself. Everybody here seemed to know everybody else, and they were all engrossed in conversations with each other. It was like every party she’d ever been to where she didn’t know anybody, only worse because everyone’s social standing was about ninety stories above hers. The only person in sight who even looked to be within ten years of her age group was a tall, spectacularly built redhead in a red dress who Isabel didn’t dare to approach or even look at too long.

  When in doubt, get something to eat and drink. As if sensing her thoughts, a waiter came up and handed her something called a “rambutan mimosa.” She had no idea what this was, and it looked like a glass of champagne that a couple of guys had ejaculated into after catching a glimpse of the ginger goddess over there, but it tasted all right.

  Once she’d finished it, she handed the glass to another server and headed for the snack table. Whoever was in charge of deciding what foods were fashionable had chosen niçoise salad with aioli this year. Only now there were certain rules to serving it. You had to make it with garden-fresh tomatoes and herbs, you had to make the aioli good and strong with plenty of puréed garlic and concentrated lemon juice, you had to chop the olives and red onion extra fine—and be careful with the red onion, a little
goes a long way—you had to arrange it artfully on little bite-size toasted brioche buns and top each one with a whole seedless grape, and—this was important—you had to remember to put the thing under the “c” in “niçoise.” Otherwise it didn’t count.

  “Is this real tuna?” said a man in front of her.

  “I can’t imagine Sandy would serve anything else—especially not to her,” said the woman next to him. So, most people here were on a first-name basis with Sandy and a She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named basis with Morgan. Good to know.

  As Isabel was loading up a little plate with edible-looking stuff, she heard a voice at her side.

  “Excuse me—don’t I know you?”

  Isabel turned and looked up at a forty-something woman, taller than her, with a broad, friendly face. It was Governor Camberg. Or former Governor or ex-Governor or however you were supposed to say it. Isabel had last seen her more than a year and a half ago. She’d lost a lot of weight since then, and the gray streak in her hair had unmysteriously disappeared. She was apparently a much more conservative dresser than Morgan, wearing a wool pantsuit so dark Isabel wasn’t sure what shade it was in this light, other than not quite black.

  “I know I’ve seen you before somewhere,” said Camberg. “Don’t tell me… don’t tell me… you worked on the Norfolk Plan, didn’t you?”

  “I did.” But how the hell did you remember? We spoke once for one minute. Then she thought she’s a politician. Remembering people is part of the job. “I’m… sorry about what happened in Congress.”

  Camberg shrugged. “It was too much to hope for that it would succeed the first time. Anyway, now we have a chance to update the Plan and get it to the new Congress. There’s going to be another conference in April, and this one’s going to be in an actual conference center. No more making everybody stay in a wrecked naval base.”

  “I hope I can make it.”

  This is actually going okay. It might have been shop talk, but talking about her family would feel like asking for help from yet another rich and powerful person, and conversationally, Isabel couldn’t think of much else to bring to the table. Unless Camberg happened to be into rhust or a big fan of the Ravens, neither of which seemed likely. Also, she was the first person Isabel had met tonight who’d looked at her rather than her bling.

  “So how’d you end up doing this?”

  Isabel explained her connection with Sandy.

  Camberg turned. “Thel?” she said. “Come over here.”

  And now, because this night was not nearly crazy enough, here came the redhead. When she stepped into the light, Isabel got a good look at her and realized that she couldn’t be older than eighteen, and was probably a year or so younger. Then she remembered reading that the governor had a teenage daughter.

  As Camberg did the introductions, Isabel’s salivary glands felt like they were trying to make up their minds whether to go dry or start drooling. Thel had a face that belonged on a fashion magazine cover, freckles and all. Her auburn hair was in a choppy sort of shag that almost reached her shoulders. She smiled, showing teeth so white and even they must have put her orthodontist’s kids through college.

  Thel leaned in close to get a better look at the diamonds. MUST NOT LOOK DOWN CLEAVAGE. MUST CONCENTRATE ON FACE. Her eyes were the same color as Isabel’s.

  “These are awesome,” said Thel. “Hey, did you get that dress from Harris’s?”

  “Yes, I did.” Thel’s dress was fire-engine red, pleated in the skirt and made for somebody six inches taller, but otherwise it was much the same. But if the dress had been designed by Irene J. Harris, the contents had apparently been designed by a teenage boy.

  Thel touched the necklace, then one of the Alpine diamonds. “I know I want some new earrings,” she said, “but I can’t decide what color.”

  Since her fingers had brushed the base of Isabel’s throat, she was having a little trouble finding her voice through all that tingling. She finally managed to say, “Well… they’re coming out in April. You’ve got plenty of time to decide.”

  All that Isabel knew about Thel Camberg was that she’d gone with her mother on some trip to the Mideast and some crazy religious extremists had chucked a rock at her. That sort of thing was why Isabel stayed out of the Mideast. Thel looked okay now, though. Actually, “okay” was putting it mildly. What is wrong with me? First the governor, now this girl who probably isn’t even legal and whose MOTHER is watching. I swear I wasn’t this horny the last time I was having actual sex. Come to think of it, I haven’t thought much about sex since Laurie left. Is it just that I’ve been spending so much time worrying about money and my family? And now that we’re all more secure, my libido is coming back?

  “So,” said Thel, “what kind of music do you listen to?”

  “I’m into rhust. Also Laura Bronzino, Epifania…”

  “Cool!” This gave them something to chat about for a minute or so. It turned out they had both been at the Rodomontade concert in June, although of course Thel and her friends had had much better seats. Meanwhile, Thel’s mother was sending a long, complicated text.

  Finally Camberg looked up from her phone. “You know what?” she said. “I’m going to bring somebody here and let him introduce himself. Just wait here a moment and he’ll show up.”

  Thel rolled her eyes. “It’s that guy, isn’t it?”

  “Excuse us,” said Carrie.

  Then Camberg and her daughter went up to talk with Morgan. What happened next might have been Isabel’s imagination. For just a moment, it seemed that Morgan’s too-cool-for-any-emotion-other-than-mild-disdain mask slipped, and what was under it was a look of raw hate… directed at Thel, of all people.

  The deepest of the moulins was in the stretch of West Antarctica called Marie Byrd Land, midway between the Crary Mountains and the spectacularly unpoetic Executive Committee Range. Without warning, and seemingly without cause, the ice around this moulin began trembling as if in an earthquake. A satellite captured the sudden rippling of the water in the melt ponds within a twenty-mile radius.

  When the shaking stopped, the moulin was at the center of a starburst of narrow crevasses down which the water had vanished. From above, the ice looked like someone had hit a sheet of glass with the point of a chisel.

  Glaciologists and cryologists the world over had new questions to ponder: What just happened? Is it likely to happen again, and if so, how often and on what scale? Some twenty feet of potential sea level rise was locked up in the West Antarctic Ice Sheet, waiting to be unleashed on the world. Any sign of instability in it was a harbinger of disaster.

  * * *

  Isabel turned her head and saw someone new coming through the coatroom—a slender young man in a tailored navy suit and red tie. His hair was parted on the left and buzz-cut on the left in what Isabel assumed was the latest style. He was about six feet tall, and handsome in a thin-faced way. He walked up to her with the cold, confident swagger of a man who’d watched an online video tutorial called How to Swagger with Cold Confidence and practiced in front of a mirror several times a week.

  “Hello there,” he said, looking her straight in the eye with hardly a glance at the jewelry she was wearing. “You must be the notorious Isabel Bradshaw. Am I right?”

  “Uh… only if I’m notorious.” Am I? Shit, I probably am at this point. I’m not even sure what for.

  The thin guy nodded. “I am Jerome Ross, the greatest political aide of my generation,” he said, taking her hand and shaking it. “They call me Rome, in honor of my many conquests. I’ve served with the Morgan campaign in New York, and this year I masterminded the victories of seven different upset candidates in Senate races.” Isabel tried not to look impressed, but that sounded… impressive. Assuming she could take his word on the importance of his involvement. Which would be a really stupid assumption.

  “I am the right hand of Carrie Camberg and the pimp hand of God above,” he said, “and now I’m going to introduce you to my friends. Damn, you’re we
aring a lot of sparkly shit.” He beckoned her into the coatroom. Isabel followed him, desperately trying to think of something to say in response. Thel was right. This was definitely… that guy. He might well be the thattest guy in the history of thattitude.

  “This is a little lounge the cleaning staff uses,” said Rome, gesturing to the door at the far end of the little room.

  “Where’s the staff now?”

  “Downstairs somewhere.”

  The lounge was small. There was a collection of comfortable but mismatched chairs in it, and a small table with a bucket of champagne and a plate of tuna niçoise bites and other fancy nibbles on top of an assortment of print magazines. There were nine or ten other people in the room, none of whom looked older than thirty.

  I swear, thought Isabel, I could find the uncool kids’ table in a thousand square miles of trackless wilderness. Still, at least she had a remote chance of finding something in common with some of these people.

  “Everyone!” said Rome. “Your attention please. This is a personal friend of our host, and as such is a woman of status and consequence. Do not grope her. That goes double for you two.” He gestured to a couple of tiny young women sharing an extra-wide chair near the door. “Isabel, meet Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.”

  “Hi,” said Isabel, reaching out to shake their hands. “I’m guessing those aren’t your real names.” And how does Rome know this much about me already? Just how much did Camberg tell him in that text message? Or does he have other sources of info?