by Patty Jansen
She set five of the boys to work on the teaching modules. Two of them helped her check the data and feed it into the spool. They were eager to work, and did not disturb her once, unlike her little cousins. Melati formatted the results, and booked computing time to run overnight.
All too soon, the bell chimed and lights dimmed for the end of A shift.
Melati was frantically trying to finish entering data when the door to the unit slid open and Louise came into the doorway.
Zax rose, ran across the room and threw himself against Melati with a force that almost unseated her. “Melati, Melati, I want to come with you!”
All the other boys followed his example.
“Boys, boys, look what you’ve done.” She’d put her hands flat on the screen and “typed” an entire page of nonsense.
“Oh.” Tika looked at the screen, raising his hand to his mouth. He giggled.
“I’ll fix it up for you,” Abe said, and in three keystrokes, got rid of the text. They were learning quickly, just not in the prescribed way.
Louise remained in the doorway, looking awkward. Melati met her eyes over the boys’ heads.
“Come on, boys, behave yourselves. You have some very important work to do.”
“But we don’t want to do it here,” Shan said.
“Yes. Can we go back to the hospital and stay with Esse?”
“Wait, what?” She frowned at Louise. Melati hadn’t seen that expression on her face before and couldn’t place it. “Why don’t you want to stay with Louise?”
“She’s yellow,” Simo whispered.
Yellow, the colour of jealousy and ill feeling. Louise? She was the nicest person Melati knew.
“Hi, Melati,” she said.
Melati heard nothing untoward in Louise’s voice. She just didn’t get the boys’ reactions.
“How are you, Louise?”
Melati tried to untangle herself from the boys, but they only gripped her clothes harder.
“Please, Melati, can you stay with us?” Tyro whispered. “We’ll be really nice and do exactly what you say.”
“Yes, we won’t talk about Stephen Grimshaw anymore.”
That gave her a chill. Now they had concluded that talking about him was bad. It wasn’t, unless they talked about him all the time.
“Yes, we promise. Please?”
“Come on, boys, let me go.” She disentangled herself from the boys’ arms and went to Louise, who had stayed near the door, looking uncertain and timid. Melati gestured, and they went into the unit’s tiny hallway. “What’s going on?”
“I . . .” Louise spread her hands and let them fall by her sides. “I don’t know.” Her eyes avoided Melati’s.
“This morning I heard stories that you upset them with questions.”
The silence stretched.
“Louise?”
“They were upset about something.”
“Yes, they got annoyed about Esse swinging his legs. They had a fight, but that’s all fixed now. I’ve seen Esse and Dr Chee said his problem was easy to fix. He’ll be back tomorrow.”
Again, Louise said nothing, but stared at the opposite wall.
“Louise, is there anything I should know about?”
Silence.
“What happened?”
Louise gave a stifled sob. “He was . . . he just wouldn’t stop it . . . I took him into the bedroom and asked him what I could do for him, but he wouldn’t talk to me. I asked if it had something to do with the missing brother, but he just sat staring at me. I asked the other boys what they knew and why he was swinging his legs, but they didn’t want to cooperate.” She turned to me, tears in her eyes. “I just . . . lost it.”
“What?” Melati felt a chill. You did not yell at new constructs.
She looked away. “What difference is it going to make, you’re going to hear it anyway. I hit him.”
“Esse?”
She nodded.
“Louise, why? Why didn’t you ask for assistance?”
She was crying. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I just lost my temper. It won’t happen again.”
But the damage was already done, wasn’t it?
“Well, that won’t help any of us now.” Melati took a few breaths to calm herself. Shouting at Louise wouldn’t help either. “Have you spoken to a counsellor?”
Louise shook her head, slowly.
“Why not?”
She shrugged.
“Why not, Louise? What’s going on?” Melati felt like grabbing her shoulders and shaking her. What had gotten into her? Was everybody conspiring to fail the cohort?
She noticed that in the main room, the boys were all looking at the doorway with wide eyes. Yes, she needed to stay calm.
Louise said, “You know why they never mention Lori Azinger in construct lessons and discontinued the Azinger line, don’t you?”
Slowly, Melati shook her head. She had wondered, but always thought it to be part of Louise’s history that Louise would share if she wanted.
“Lori went insane. One day, she snapped and killed a colleague of hers—a Mikonov—and spent the last years of her life in jail. The same happened to two members of Azinger 2, and has been happening to at least one member of every cohort since, so they stopped making Azingers.”
Louise’s eyes were wide. Melati looked into her pale, freckled face and felt a surge of pity. Ari was a pain, Rina was lazy, Uncle was only interested in food and Grandma was stubborn, but at least no one would ever stop “making” Rudiyantos. In fact, even though she wouldn’t contribute to the family line herself, there would probably be more Rudiyantos than authorities wished to deal with. Annoying, smart, bribing, defiant, stubborn Rudiyantos.
“My brother was admitted to the hospital last night.” Louise’s voice dropped to a whisper. Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m so worried that I’m going to be next.”
“No, you’re not.”
“How do you know?”
Of course she couldn’t know.
Tears ran down Louise’s cheek. Melati felt awkward but she put a hand on Louise’s shoulder. Louise put her arms around Melati’s shoulders. It felt strange and unfamiliar. Melati had never been in much contact with any of the adult constructs.
“I’m sorry, Louise.”
Louise disentangled herself, wiping her eyes. “I’m so glad I work with you. At least you understand.”
Melati wasn’t so sure about that.
Louise went into the living room and got the boys ready to go to dinner, while Melati finished the last touches on the file they had compiled that afternoon.
At first the computer wouldn’t read it. Typical—the computer played up just when you were in a hurry.
The clock had already ticked over into the B shift. Maybe she should excuse herself permanently from prayer. She’d do it when she got home. That’s what Pak used to do anyway, whenever he came home and whenever she was home as well. Together. He used to say It’s all very well having different rooms for men and women, but that’s not how we live. My women are part of my family. And not much later, Wahid started having joint prayers as well.
The stupid computer finally read the file on the fifth try and took almost twenty minutes vetting and approving it. Any more of this nonsense and she would start to sound like Dr Chee.
But finally it was done, and she started the program. Projected run time: seven hours, twenty-one minutes. Seriously?
Chapter 14
* * *
MELATI WENT TO GET changed and left the ISF ring via the lift. She found the large hall eerily empty except for a couple of bored enforcers hanging around at the lift doors. A sign above the lift said that a shuttle from the Interstellar Beacon Station was due in two hours and then the first ship from New Pyongyang just before change of shift. The calm before the hordes of refugees came in. Where would StatOp house them all? Not in the disused and dilapidated BC block?
She found many of the miners in the next hall, queuing up to get through the chec
kpoint. The crowd hummed with unhappy voices.
“It’s getting worse,” a woman said behind her. “My sister said they asked her for ID and imprint.”
“They haven’t caught the criminals yet, then?” Another woman.
Someone further down in the crowd made a comment about enforcer incompetence, and everyone laughed.
“This is about what has happened at New Pyongyang,” a man said.
A heavyset woman in front of Melati said, “Nah, that’s just an excuse to keep checking us. My son’s been out of work for two days because of this. Can’t get past the checkpoint without a tag, you know. The queues at the tagging office are all the way around the block. There’s no numbers, no appointments, so if you leave the queue, you lose your spot. It’s ridiculous.”
While standing in the crowd, Melati messaged Ari to meet her at Uncle’s rumak. Typically, he had not replied by the time she arrived there. The dining room was oddly quiet and a dry nutty smell hung in the room. She found Uncle and Grandma in the kitchen, busy dry-roasting huge quantities of fake coconut in a wok. Grandma was grounding up spices with an improvised mortar and pestle made from the poly-resin that the recyclers spat out. A couple of large containers stood on the kitchen table, lined with grease-proof paper that Uncle used for wrapping up food. His face glistened with sweat.
“What’s going on?” Melati asked. Uncle only wrapped up food when there was a party.
“Harto’s giving a slametan to announce the marriage of his daughter.” His expression was full of meaning. His daughter’s marriage would be the excuse, entered into the permission request that had to be filed with StatOp. Rumour was that even when Grandma left Indonesia few people still had the traditional feasts—too expensive, relatives living too far from each other—but they had resurrected the ancient custom to circumvent StatOp’s restrictions on political meetings.
“He’s going to officially announce his candidature for the Council,” Melati said.
Uncle nodded, his expression grave. “Likely.”
“Who’s going on our behalf?”
“Grandma.”
“I think you should go with her, Uncle,” Melati said, while scooping rice into a bowl. “I think this will be important.”
Uncle shrugged. “It’s a formality. Wahid’s too old, and he’s chosen Harto as successor.”
Yes, but . . . “What do you know about Harto’s relationship with the hypertechs?”
He turned and faced her, frowning. “Hypertechs?”
“Both his sons are in the hypertechs, even though we’re not supposed to know who they are. I heard someone say that he uses them to advise him on tech issues.”
Uncle’s frown deepened.
Melati shrugged. “Well, that’s what I heard. Don’t know if it’s true.”
“It makes sense,” he said. “This morning, after you left, he was talking about running our own administration and generating our own power. I thought he was talking about a grandiose fantasy, but if he’s been talking to the hypertechs . . . that makes sense.”
“So what does he want? A separate administration for tier 2?”
“Presume so.”
“Where would the money come from?”
“Don’t ask me. Business interests, he says.”
But Melati knew. Handouts from tier 1 for the part of the administration that was honest. Bribes from the New Hyderabad mafia for the part that was not. “Well, I’m not sure if that would be an improvement.” That wouldn’t stop the mafia; it would encourage them.
Grandma looked up from her grinding. “There is no one else to vote for, and I like him. He says what should have been said long ago. He will finally fight for our rights.”
“We already have the right to leave the station.”
“Yes, dear granddaughter, but no one can afford it. We do all of tier 1’s hard mining work and they get all the money. They own all the machines—”
“The equipment belongs to the station.”
“Rats! They get to say how it’s used. We should own it. We could mine precious metals and sell those. You want something, you have to fight for it, lo.” She stomped the pestle in the bowl with vigour.
This talk, plus the mention of hypertechs, made Melati feel uneasy. She liked Wahid and his intelligent and gentle manner. She understood why people were unhappy with him, why they thought he was selling them out to the enforcers. She’d faced similar accusations many times. But he was not an idiot, far from it, and he considered his actions and their potential consequences carefully.
Being the interface between two groups wasn’t easy. It wasn’t a matter of shouting what you wanted and expecting the other party to agree. Habits had grown over time and sometimes they were easy to change, but sometimes they were not, especially if a lot of administration was involved, or if authorities couldn’t act without approval from elsewhere.
She thought that Wahid did a reasonable job. He had respect from everyone on the council, including Jocar Bassanti, and had made no major enemies, which was more than could be said about his predecessor.
But she wasn’t going to have another argument with Grandma over this. She took a bowl and went to the stove, where an overflowing pan of nasi goreng exuded wonderful smells. She couldn’t see a spoon, so she used the bowl to scoop some up.
“Have you heard from Rina?” she asked when the silence lingered.
“Haven’t heard a thing,” Uncle said.
“What about Ari? Has he seen her?”
“Haven’t heard. You know Ari.”
Yes, she knew all too well. He still hadn’t responded to her message. “Have you heard from Socrates? He said Rina went home sick, but I think they had a disagreement. Did she go to work today?”
Grandma said, “She’s better off not working for that man.”
“Uncle, I’m worried about her. What do I need to do to get you worried as well?” Tell him Rina was sleeping with istel pilots in the seedy dockside hotels? Except he probably knew already.
Uncle picked up the wok with the corners of his apron. “I’m too busy to be worried. She’ll turn up. She’s done this before.” And sadly, that, too, was true. He plonked the wok in the middle of the table. “And when she turns up, we’ll worry about what needs worrying about.”
The scent from the freshly-made serundeng was heavenly. Fresh and spicy, despite the fake coconut.
Melati took a handful and sprinkled some on her rice.
Uncle slapped her hand with his spatula. “Now either help us or go.”
“Going, going.”
She picked up her container of food and left.
He was right. Rina would turn up. She would apologise and then all would be fine again. Until the next fight with Socrates.
* * *
In JeJe, many people, dressed in their best gear and carrying food, milled about in groups, waiting for others to join them to go to the slametan. It was to be a big one, and maybe she should go if Uncle didn’t want to, because after her argument with Harto this morning and hearing about the hypertechs, she didn’t think he was simply going to take over Wahid’s position.
His self-important rise as head of the hansip should have been a warning. He wanted power. He would annoy the other members of the council, and if you wanted something done at the station, Jocar Bassanti was not the man to turn into an enemy.
Then there was the issue of the hypertechs.
It was fine for hypertechs to do as they pleased, but to run the tier 2 administration? Then another thought: was the fact that they had sold this nanofilm to Ari part of their new commercial face? Attempts to prove that they could make money?
The thought made Melati shudder.
How could you respect people whose business it was to break into computer systems with the intent of stealing information? People who never showed their face?
When Melati came to her unit and held her ID tag to the panel next to the door, it wouldn’t open. A moment of panic seized her. God, the enforcers ha
d found out that she lived alone. On second thought, that was ridiculous. They had never evicted anyone without notice. In fact, they hadn’t evicted anyone for a long time, since there was nowhere to evict them to.
She stepped back, studying the door. There were deep scratches near the lock that hadn’t been there when she left in the morning. There were also scratches in the door frame, and a dent that hadn’t been there before, and this caused the door to jam.
God, not another scooter accident. When the scooter racers missed the corner, her door was the thing that stopped them. It hadn’t happened for a while, but she had the door fixed a few times because some boy had crashed into it. By the time she saw the damage, the culprits had always gone, leaving her with the damage and the bill. Within the B sector she could barter for repairs, but this looked bad enough to require StatOp maintenance. Oh, sod it. Just what she needed.
She put the food parcel down and hit the door with both her fists. She tried the control panel again. The mechanism hummed and the door vibrated, but didn’t open. Then she kicked it and tried the control panel again. This time, the door moved a hand’s width.
She grabbed the edge with both hands and heaved. With much creaking and groaning, she managed to make the opening big enough to get through. Then she picked up her nasi goreng, went inside, pushed the door shut again and kicked the dent from the inside. Slid the door back in its frame. Still stuck. Another kick. The walls shuddered with the force.
Now at least the door shut again, but it hadn’t gotten any prettier. This was so annoying.
She put the nasi in the fridge. There should be enough food at the slametan; if not, she’d eat when she came back.
She turned to her bedroom to find some suitable clothes. Her red kebaya, a nice sarong, and earrings; then back into the hall to find some shoes.
But, hey, what was that?
Her unit hub’s message board flashed, You have one unread message. Priority: highest.
How long had that been flashing? Hardly anyone ever used the message capability.
Melati touched the panel and punched in her code.