Earthweb

by Marc Stiegler

  CJ didn't understand. "Why not? Think I'm good at hiding my thoughts?"

  Morgan snorted. "Of course not. You're an open book. The problem is, you'd always pick up a straight flush." He waved his hand. "Oh, I'd always know you had a straight flush just by looking at that smug expression on your face. But you'd still win."

  CJ looked away thoughtfully. "I guess that's okay when fighting Shiva. I mean, you can't really bluff it anyway, can you?"

  "No," he said. "You can only beat them with a straight flush." Morgan skillfully snapped his wheelchair in a half circle to get around her.

  Solomon chirped. "Pretty CJ," she said, and the first few notes of "The Girl from Ipanema" echoed down the hallway in their wake.

  Morgan muttered, "You're a damned impertinent bird."

  He thought he'd spoken to himself, but CJ heard it. She caught up easily. Laughing, she asked Solomon, "How long have you had this curmudgeon with you?"

  Solomon waggled her head with pleasure. "Always. Mate of teacher."

  Morgan explained. "My wife was an ornithologist. She followed up the work done by Dr. Irene Pepperberg." He added, "She also loved twentieth-century music, particularly the later half, if you're curious about Sol's repertoire."

  CJ continued to look puzzled as she asked him to tell her more about Irene Pepperberg.

  "Pepperberg was the woman who first taught parrots to talk, really talk with semantic meaning. She lived somewhere in Nevada . . . no, Arizona, I think." He waved his hand. "It all took place before the Crash. Anyway, Elisabeth built on Pepperberg's ideas. She did some fairly amazing things with parrots." He glared at the preening gray form on his shoulder. "Not all of her experiments were successes."

  CJ mouthed the name. "Elisabeth MacBride." Her mouth formed a large "O" of realization. "Dr. Elisabeth MacBride was your wife? I hadn't made the connection."

  Morgan smiled. "In some circles she was more famous than I am."

  CJ turned back to Solomon. "So what do you think of Carnack?" Carnack was the bird that had led a flight of parrots into Shiva IV to do recon, using an Argo dropped into Shiva's dock during the primary battle in the asteroid belt. Carnack and his flock had mapped out the passages before Angel One's assault. Carnack been very successful, too. Unfortunately, when Earth Defense had tried the same trick against Shiva V, a team of repair mechs had been waiting for them. The parrots hadn't even gotten out of the Alabaster Hall.

  CJ gave a wolf whistle. "Carnack brave. Carnack crazy. Carnack hero." She flapped her wings enthusiastically. "Cute tailfeathers."

  Morgan ground his teeth. The last thing he needed was his Angel Leader getting chummy with his dead wife's blasted bird. "Yes, Carnack was every bit as good as some of my Angel Leaders. And he's just as . . ." He trailed off, not really wanting to finish the sentence.

  "He's just as dead," CJ whispered.

  Solomon replied. "All go sometime."

  CJ answered, "Yeah, so we do."

  Solomon rolled her head at the impossible upside down/sideways angle used to persuade a human to pet her. CJ instinctively understood, and started running a finger up and down Solomon's neck. As CJ stroked the bird, she said, "Solomon, I was thinking of flying to Vegas to Ruth's Chris for lunch. Steak and a chocolate malt. Would you like to come along and check it out?"

  Morgan cleared his throat. "We have other business. Sol can't have chocolate anyway—it's poison for parrots. Although, I have considered giving her Oreos from time to time."

  Sol bit him. "Business wait. Steak great!" She whistled "Walk Like an Egyptian."

  CJ looked at Morgan triumphantly. "Well, Angel Controller, whaddya think?"

  Morgan would have said no again, except that, for the first time, CJ had used his proper title. Perhaps it would be a good start.

  * * *

  Convinced that the unknown visitor had to be a friend making an unscheduled stop, Sofia swept down the stairway as a full-powered reception committee of one. Paolo, being slightly more paranoid, opened the wallscreen in the breakfast nook and alerted security to the surprise intrusion.

  It was quite unusual for somebody to just cruise up to the house uninvited. They didn't advertise the location of their house, like some people on the Web, and Paolo strongly preferred a life of quiet anonymity. He'd made over a billion dollars off the 'castpoints. He didn't relish publicity as some people might. Ask anyone who'd won a lottery how much they liked having ten new best friends pop out of the woodwork every day, all with great ideas on how to spend the winner's money.

  Paolo and Mercedes watched as Sofia strode across the courtyard to the landing pad. Mercedes poked her father in the ribs. "I'll bet he's from out of country, Daddy. That's a rental car, or I'm a blonde." She crossed her eyes, giving him her best goofy dingbat expression.

  Paolo laughed. "No forecasts today, Princessa. Besides, I think you're right about the rental." The skycar was a plain vanilla model; he couldn't even tell who manufactured it. Toyota? Boeing? Ford? The answer lay outside his areas of expertise.

  A pale but distinguished young man in a camel's hair jacket, button-down Oxford-cloth shirt open at the neck, pressed khaki pants, and Docksiders stepped lightly from the car. He was only a little taller than Sofia, they could see as she greeted him.

  Paolo clapped his hands. "What a delightfully elegant gentleman! Your new boyfriend?"

  Mercedes hit his shoulder. "Don't be silly. He's way too clean-cut for my taste."

  "Too clean-cut! Would he be better if he rolled in the mud? Should I tell him this secret to winning your heart?"

  Mercedes hit Paolo again, harder this time. "You know what I mean. Look how short his hair is. He's a mama's boy."

  "Princessa, you may say that to him, but I could not. Observe the muscles across his shoulders and back." As Sofia danced about him in her normal animated conversational style, they could see the fellow from every angle as he politely twisted and turned in a vain attempt to maintain eye contact with her.

  Mercedes saw and understood. "Competition swimmer."

  "Or gymnast."

  "Swimmer," Mercedes replied authoritatively. She should know; she'd been a competition swimmer herself in high school.

  Sofia led the visitor in another do-se-do beneath their watchful eyes.

  "Cute butt," Mercedes conceded in a slight change of the conversation.

  "What!? I am shocked, Princessa!"

  Mercedes laughed. "Don't worry, Daddy, he's still not my type."

  "Shame. He looks like a nice guy. Or perhaps I should say he looks like a decent chap, as they'd say in England, since I'd guess that's his home." Paolo smiled slyly and looked at Mercedes out of the corner of his eye. "You haven't started dating yet, have you?"

  Mercedes held up both fists and uttered a guttural scream. "Father!" Her eyes filled with fire.

  Paolo laughed. They'd had a running joke that she wasn't allowed to date till she was twenty-five. His heart skipped a beat as he realized that even according to that outrageous timetable, she would soon be finding other men to replace him. He knew it was foolish, but the thought upset him nonetheless.

  Paolo turned back to watch as Sofia gesticulated, communicating with her graceful hands as only Sofia could.

  Mercedes spoke again. "Okay, if you won't take the first bet, let me try another one. I don't think the gentleman is going to get past Mom."

  "Um. You're wrong, but I don't want to take your money on that one, Princessa." Sofia's movements from the beginning had had a defensive air to them. The stranger spoke again—the second time he'd been able to get a word in edgewise—and Sofia's arms stopped in mid-gesture. She burst into laughter.

  Paolo raised his eye at his daughter. "Battle over. Stranger, One, and—"

  Mercedes interrupted sadly, "—Mother, Zero."

  Sofia and the visitor headed for the door. Paolo looked hard at the man. "He looks awfully familiar."

  Mercedes nodded her head. "Yeah, he does. I'll remember who he is in moment." She paused. "Daddy?" />
  "Yes?"

  "How did you know he'd get past Mom?"

  Paolo raised his chin and sniffed the air. "Well, you know, that's why they call me the 'Predictor.' "

  His daughter hit him in the arm again; he had to admit, he seemed to be earning his beating today. "Daddy!" she said with conviction. "The Predictor is just a Web myth, like alligators in the sewers in New York City. You know that. Stop joking with me."

  Paolo squeezed his daughter's shoulders. "I'll never stop joking with you, Princessa."

  Sofia entered the room and beckoned the visitor to follow her. "Paolo, I'd like to present Reggie Oxenford."

  Oxenford reached out his hand.

  Paolo's expression blanked even as he automatically accepted the handshake. "Oxenford," he muttered.

  "The reporter," Mercedes said in the flat tone that told Paolo she, too, had immediately recognized the name. He didn't have to look to know that her face was now as deadpan as his own.

  Oxenford looked back and forth at the two of them, eyes alert, knowing that he had at least two strikes against him already for some unfathomable reason. "Call me Reggie," he said as a start.

  A cold pause followed his overture.

  Paolo felt a measure of dismay, knowing that his daughter hated reporters solely because he himself had hated them. News people—the media elite—had been a terrible scourge during his childhood. But they had gradually lost power with the advent of bidirectional, reputation-endorsed public commentary via Web links shortly after the turn of the millennium. People who published on the Web—especially people who wanted the title of "reporter"—had to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Failure was brutally and swiftly punished with electronic tar and digital feathers. Despite a rocky start, honesty had taken over as the currency of the Web—a devastating if subtle blow to manipulators of public opinion. Weakened by the Web, the media elite had died alongside their political bedfellows in the Crash.

  So reporters really weren't a bad thing anymore, and hadn't really been much of a scourge even when his daughter was born. But Paolo had instilled his prejudices into her and now, even though he himself had finally grown out of his distrust, his daughter had not.

  Sofia was too astute not to notice the icicles hanging from the words of greeting, but she was in hostess-mode now and performed the rituals with the easy grace that rose above such problems. "Reggie—as you can see, we were just eating. Would you care for something? A pan dulce, or scrambled eggs perhaps?"

  Reggie shook his head. "Thank you, but I just ate." He held his head in mock dizziness. "Jet lag, you know. I've been to three continents in three days. I fear my body clocks are a bit confused."

  Sofia pursued him with typical tenacity. "Coffee, then?"

  Reggie nodded. "Perhaps that would help."

  Sofia departed, calling for Rosa.

  Reggie stood very quietly, looking out the window. "You have a truly marvelous home here, if you'll permit me to say so."

  Paolo nodded. "I have to agree. Sofia is nothing if not gifted as a house buyer, renovator, and all-round decorator. The results of her efforts are invariably spectacular."

  Mercedes chimed in. "You should have seen our last house. Smaller, but even more amazing."

  Reggie smiled at her. "You must be Mercedes."

  Mercedes gave him her most dazzling social smile, which looked to Paolo like the smile of a shark about to strike. "That's me."

  Sofia returned with coffee for Reggie. Paolo turned to the table and picked up his own hot chocolate. The liquid in the cup had turned cold, but it gave him something to do with his hands.

  Everyone stood in silence for a moment, drinking, and watching and listening to the black-headed grosbeaks flitter outside. They were red birds with black heads and black on their wings who wintered in Mexico and sang beautifully. Sofia always had their favorite safflower seeds in an aboveground feeder, just to attract all that she could.

  Reggie spoke in surprise. "What a remarkable song those birds are singing. I wouldn't have expected to hear them from inside. Are the birds really that loud? Or have you done something to this window? I can even hear the wind rustling the trees."

  Sofia smiled proudly. "We have microphones scattered about outside, and the sounds of nature can be piped into any room."

  Paolo nodded. "Yes, Mercedes and I were serious when we told you how creatively Sofia builds a home. This is just one of her brilliant touches."

  Reggie sighed in admiration. "Magnificent. You are a very lucky man, Mr. Ossa y Santiago."

  Paolo winced at the full use of his name. "Please call me Paolo. But let me say that you performed magnificently, pronouncing my name correctly. I've never even heard an American say it right, and I'd never have expected it from a Brit."

  "Thank you," Reggie said humbly. "I try very hard not to botch people's names. It quite ruins the interviews before they begin."

  Mercedes stepped forward. "So you're here to interview Father?" she demanded.

  Reggie slouched over slightly and opened his palms as if to beg forgiveness, or at least to show that he wasn't armed. "If he will permit it. And you too, of course." He gave her his most winning smile. His hazel eyes carried a challenge in them, but even so his smile did not look as predatory as Mercedes' had.

  The smile triggered a surprising reaction in Mercedes. Her mouth opened wide. "Olympics. Ten years ago. Gold medal breast stroke."

  Surprise made Reggie's smile sparkle. He clapped. "See? I'm not just a reporter. I'm a person, too." He folded his hands humbly. "But my story is not half as interesting as your father's." He turned back to Paolo. "Sir, if you are the chap I think you are, I believe you have something of a story to tell. Am I correct?"

  Paolo's heart leaped in his throat. He was tempted to deny Reggie's assertion, but his expression betrayed him. He'd often wondered if this day would come, if someone would finally figure out that the legend invented in foolish Web gossip actually fingered a real human being. He started to speak, but Mercedes, after a quick look at her father, mentioned in a voice full of sweetness edged with steel, "Before you start the interview, I think we should set up a contractual understanding of what you can say about what we tell you, don't you think?" Her smile grew even more charming now, but the sharklike quality had turned into a rapier-edged gleam in her dark brown eyes.

  Reggie laughed in relief. He hadn't known quite what she had been going to say. "Of course. Actually, I insist." He pulled out his palmtop and held up the display. "I have a standard contract here. Of course, I expect that you will want to change it." He smiled at Mercedes. "And of course, there is no one better qualified to make modifications than you. Indeed, I'd appreciate your help improving my standard contract."

  Mercedes' anger dissolved in astonishment, which she quickly covered with a frown of suspicion. Paolo fought to hide his surprise, but could not help a short laugh.

  Sofia was the swiftest to recover. She beamed proudly. "So you've heard of my daughter," she said.

  Reggie replied, keeping his grin and his gaze focused on Mercedes. "Of course I have. Unless there's more than one Mercedes Ossa y Pirelli, Salutatorian of her class at Stanford University, protégé of Mike Lacobie. I hear you've been tapped to write detailed specs for the forecasts on the Angel Two assault 'castpoint."

  Paolo now turned his surprised eyes on his daughter. "Really?"

  Mercedes blushed. "Well, yeah, actually, he's right."

  Paolo huffed, "Were you going to keep this a secret from us?"

  Mercedes winced. "It was going to be a surprise. I was going to tell you at dinner. Really!"

  Paolo harumphed. Sofia shrieked, "That's just wonderful!" She swept Mercedes into her arms and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  Mercedes glared at the reporter from her current location, trapped in the spine-tingling embrace of her energetic mother. "Thanks, Mom. Uh, could you let me breathe a little bit, please?"

  Sofia released her daughter. "To think we needed t
o have Reggie Oxenford come here for us to find out. Goodness!"

  Now it was Reggie's turn to wince. He even blushed—easy to see in such a pale face. "I'm really sorry. I had no idea . . ."

  Mercedes sighed. "You had no way of knowing I hadn't told them yet." Her brow folded down like thunderclouds gathering round a tornado, despite the soothing words.

  Paolo just shook his head. "Well, Reggie, you just broke a first-rate story. I guess that pretty well establishes your credentials. But I'd still like to verify your identity the old-fashioned way." He raised an eyebrow at his daughter. "Even before we enter into a contract."

  Reggie agreed immediately. "Of course. Truth be told, I don't even look enough like my Web photo to convince me that I'm myself." He laughed. "I spent an entire day with a photographer getting a shot that made me look older, more mature. People don't think young newscasters are reliable, you know."